A Time to Heal
by Aleine Skyfire
Summary: When Holmes and Watson wander into the year A.D. 2025, they are taken in by a family broken and haunted by past and future.  Can the two friends help the family heal, or will Holmes's reticence interfere?
1. A Most Singular Beginning

**Author's Note:**

Hello! A friend recently got me hooked on Sherlock Holmes, and eventually, this story was born. I'm still working my way through all the stories, but rest assured that I will finish them _long_ before this story is complete. (Technically, I shouldn't be starting another chaptered fic, since I have four others in two other fandoms requiring attention, but my muse can be such a pain about these things. *sighs*)

Anyway, I ran it by my friend with a little bit of trepidation, and she said it was good. Hope you enjoy!

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==A Time to Heal==**

When Holmes and Watson wander into the year A.D. 2025, they are taken in by a family broken and haunted by past and future. Can the two friends help the family heal, or will Holmes's reticence interfere?

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==Chapter I==**

**A Most Singular Beginning**

_To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: _

_A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;_

_A time to kill, __**and a time to heal**__; a time to break down, and a time to build up; _

_A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; _

_A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;_

_A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;_

_A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace._

—Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

(_**Sherlock Holmes**_)

It was the spring of 1904, and my good friend Dr. Watson was visiting me over the weekend as he often did. This particular weekend, he arrived on Friday night rather than Saturday morning, and in the morning, we embarked on an early walk, when the world was fresh and the sunlight gentle. If we could have somehow foreseen the consequence of this small sequence of events, I wonder if we would have gone out on that walk at all.

It was an April morning, misty and quite cool. We took to the woods beyond my own property and strolled readily through the fog, despite its damp chill. At one point, the fog overtook us completely, and though Watson grumbled about his shoulder and leg, I felt a strange thrill of anticipation, such as I experience when setting out on an intriguing case. I could not then have known how greatly our lives were about to be changed.

"Come along, Watson," I urged. "Something is in the air this morning, something grand."

"Grand?" he groused. "What can be grand about such fog?"

In about half a minute, we had come out of the mist and out of the woods, and a singular sight met our eyes. Before us stretched what I perceived to be a road, but it was unlike any road I had ever seen, for it was near-black and smooth, and divided in half by one yellow line and yellow dashes running alongside it.

"Good heavens," Watson breathed.

But what caught my attention was an extraordinary spectacle on the other side of the unusual road. The only thing to which my mind could connect it was an automobile, yet so large and so completely covered that I almost dismissed the idea. But there were the four wheels and the same basic shape of the automobile, and I wondered if perhaps it was some new motorcar that had not yet been unveiled for the public use.

Out of the back of the automobile appeared a woman, muttering under her breath and bearing a thick tyre. From our position on the opposite side of the road, I could hear the words, "Figures. Good thing the team isn't here to see this." She was American, and Yankee, to boot.

I must admit that I generally pay little attention to women unless they are involved in my cases, but this one was a case unto herself. She was performing rather strenuous manual labor, as she actually raised the motorcar on a gleaming metal tool and proceeded to remove the tyre of the back right wheel and replace it with the tyre she had taken out of the car. I have walked the working districts of London and seen women in manual labor, but this was different. This mystery woman did not have the air of such women—and even on the other side of the road, I could see that her hands were tanned but smooth, not rough with labor. She was perhaps five foot ten, slender, and deceptively strong, and she moved with a smooth, catlike grace.

This was not the only reason for my interest, however, for her clothes were as foreign as her motorcar and as the road itself. She wore _trousers_, of a dark blue and durable material, and I must confess that I flushed a little, for all my investigations had never shown me what a woman's leg looked like beneath her skirt. A black leather coat hung loose around her slim frame—I surmised the coat to be her husband's, judging by the engagement and wedding bands on her left ring finger. Her dark hair was pulled back in a braid and interspersed with silver, indicating that one of her parents must have had black hair—dark brown hair grows _grey_ with age, _not_ silver, unless by genetic intervention.

"Holmes," Watson murmured, "do you suppose we should help her?" Ah, my dear, dear Watson: ever the gentleman.

"I am not sure," I replied quietly, my gaze still intent upon the woman. "I do believe the lady has her situation under control, despite her muttering."

Watson shifted uncomfortably.

"But," I continued, "I suppose chivalry demands it. Very well."

Watson strode ahead of me, while I lingered back a bit, absorbing the surroundings. I knew for a fact that there was no such place as this anywhere in my region of retirement, and further, that there was no such place like this in all the British Isles. The trees and the general look of the lonely stretch of road suggested not even Europe, but _America_. Of course, the natural question to follow was: how could Watson and I have walked from my farm in Sussex right into the United States of America? _That_ was a worthy dilemma that I, naturally, determined to puzzle out.

"Madame," I heard Watson say, "may I be of any assistance?"

The woman looked up from her work, and an expression of shock passed so swiftly over her features that a casual observer would not have noticed. But I did, and my curiosity was piqued. She looked over her shoulder to see me standing on the road a few feet from her, and this time, there was no denying the shock in her face, however swiftly it was buried.

"Holy cow," she murmured, and turned back to my companion. "I think I have it covered, sir, but thanks anyway." As she continued to work at the wheel, she asked without looking up, "Do you gentlemen need a ride? You look a bit lost."

"I believe we may be," I admitted aloud. "Would you be so kind as to tell us where we are?"

"The backwoods of New York State," was the swift reply.

It was Watson's turn to look at me in shock. "Good heavens! Holmes—"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her stiffen. "I might have guessed, Watson," I said slowly, noting that her posture stiffened further for a moment before relaxing.

"But really, this is incredible…"

Our lady friend looked up again, glancing between myself and my associate. It was then that I truly noticed her eyes and was taken aback once more, for there was no mistaking the penetrating intelligence lurking in those dark brown eyes. For one of the few times in my life aside from meetings with my brother Mycroft, I felt myself in the presence of an intellectual equal.

"I take it that you gentlemen _do_ need a ride," she said dryly. "If you can wait a few minutes, this thing will be road-worthy again."

"Well, I suppose if it's no trouble to you," Watson stammered.

Returning to her work, she shook her head. "Don't worry about it." A heartbeat passed, and then she said conversationally, "So. Holmes and Watson. Mr. _Sherlock_ Holmes and Dr. _John_ Watson?"

"You've read my tales?" Watson ventured.

"Every single one." She did not look up, but her voice carried her smile. "Kathleen Duran. Pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is all ours," Watson said sincerely.

"Thanks." She paused pensively, then continued. "Gentlemen, allow me to make some deductions?"

I arched an eyebrow. "If you insist."

She nodded slowly. "You two _aren't_ supposed to be here, are you?"

Watson glanced at me. I gave him a conceding look, and he admitted, "No, we are not."

"Right." She nodded again. "I'm somewhat going out on a limb, here, but I'd say that you gents are supposed to be in Sussex? Early 1900s."

I eyed Mrs. Kathleen Duran warily. "Yes?" I prompted.

She sighed. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, but there's no easy way of breaking this that _I_ can think of, so I'm going to be blunt. This is the year 2025. You've crossed from Sussex, turn of the century, to New York State, 2025."

It is rather difficult to describe what I felt at that moment, or what my companion felt. Past the shock, however, I _knew_ it was true. Somehow. After all, if one can cross from Sussex to New York by simply _walking_, time travel suddenly seems a bit more possible. And it explained the strange appearance of the road, the motorcar, and the woman herself.

One hundred twenty-one years…

"But-but _how_ can that _possibly_ be true?" Watson spluttered.

Mrs. Duran looked up sharply and pinned us both with an abruptly hard gaze. "I could ask _you_ the same question, gentlemen. For all _I_ know, you're lunatics or liars. How am I to know that _you_ are really who you claim to be?"

Returning her steely gaze, I countered, "If you are as intelligent as I think you are, you can reach that conclusion on your own."

"Holmes," Watson breathed.

Mrs. Duran's eyes narrowed—and suddenly, she smirked. "Touché. Genius recognizes genius, hmm?" She returned to her task. "All right, then, Mr. Holmes: I _have_ reached that conclusion on my own. I'm just leaving a little room for margin of error."

I raised both eyebrows. "Indeed?"

"Indeed."

Watson motioned me away, and I followed. "Holmes, this really is incredible!" he whispered. "Even if it _is_ true, how on earth _can_ it be?"

"I must confess I don't know, Watson," I frowned. "Perhaps Mrs. Duran can venture a theory."

"I've noticed that she does seem to be rather on _your_ level of intelligence, old chap. Something about her air, I suppose."

"Quite so," I murmured, contemplating this extraordinary turn of events.

"What I should like to know, further," my companion continued, "is _why_ we are here. Surely something of this nature must be more of the supernatural than the physical. Do we have a purpose to fulfill here?"

I glanced back at Kathleen Duran, who appeared to be almost finished with her task. "If we do, perhaps we may soon find out."

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Author's Note:**

I must say that I was rather nervous about using Holmes's POV, but I wanted him rather than Watson to start it out. The POVs will shift throughout the story.

Either the next chapter or the chapter following will explain how Kathleen Duran figured that our boys are the real deal—there would just have been too much of her own back-story to fit into an explanation _here_.

Lastly, this story will have quite a bit of angst, h/c, and… fluff. Definitely fluff. You've been warned. ^^

_**Please review!**_


	2. A Most Intriguing Continuation

**Author's Note:**

Well, thank you all for the encouraging feedback and the story alerts! At least I'm not failing miserably, hmm? ^^

Big thanks to teenelizabeth, who caught a detail error. *hugs*

**To my reviewers:**

Brazeau: Thank you! Hope I can keep your interest!

LA Suka: Again, I hope to retain your interest, thanks!

Pearlmaidenredskyla: Well, well, well, lookie there—heya, hon! *hugs* Holmes & Watson are indeed lovable. ^^ Excited to see you reading this—I'm sure you'll love it!

Historian1912: Heeey, no moanin' 'n' groanin'. ;D I'll finish Breakaway—I promise—I just need time, is all. Go bug my muse and see if you can get her going. ^^ Oh, you should read _all_ the stories (am still working my way through)—they're just so good! And I'm sincerely flattered that you'll follow a premise from me that you normally wouldn't. I have to admit that I really love the concept of time-travel, and I like it even better in a well-written story. *glances around* Nooo… no dead ends here. Nope. And yeah, Holmes and Watson get off a _lot_ easier than Erin, don't they? Of course, that's not to say nothing will happen to them in the future… I won't forget my other stories, promise! Thank you!

teenelizabeth: Well, I already said _thank you_, but I'll say it again: thank you! *hugs* Can't wait to _give_ you more! ^^ My muse is very excited about this one. Angst, h/c, and fluff are pretty much my favorites, too—just as long as the angst isn't overdone. ^_^

**==Chapter II==**

**A Most Intriguing Continuation**

_I've heard it said_

_That people come into our lives_

_For a reason_

_Bringing something we must learn_

—"For Good," _Wicked_

(_**John H. Watson, M.D.**_)

Mrs. Kathleen Duran stood as my companion spoke, and beckoned us back to her. "Tire's changed, so I'm just going to clean my hands, make a call, and then we can go, all right?"

I blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Mrs. Duran looked momentarily nonplussed. "Sorry. I meant that I'd take you back to my house—I mean, I can't just leave the two of you out here in the middle of nowhere. Besides which, you're in unfamiliar territory in an unfamiliar time—I think some seclusion is in order for adjustment, yes?"

"I believe that would be a prudent course of action, yes," Holmes agreed, nodding sharply.

"If it's no imposition," I said hesitantly.

She waved a careless hand. "No, no, not at all. I have two guestrooms back home—you're more than welcome."

"What about your husband, Mrs. Duran?" I persisted. "What will he think?"

Grief passed fleetingly over her features. "He would have doubled the welcome, Doctor," she said quietly, "were he still alive."

"I'm sorry," I said sincerely.

She gave me a small, sad smile, the kind that does not reach one's eyes. "It was a few years ago, Doctor—you learn to cope."

_You do, indeed_. I inclined my head slightly in agreement. Holmes stood off to the side, his own expression grave as he doubtless knew which way my thoughts turned. It had only been ten years ago this January that I had lost my own precious spouse to complications in childbirth.

Mrs. Duran's mouth parted in an _o_. "Doctor, I said that without thinking—I'm sorry—"

"No apologies necessary, Madame," I assured her. "As you said, you learn to cope."

She looked momentarily discomfited. "…Please, call me Kathleen." She hastened to add, "People these days aren't exactly so formal."

She took advantage of my surprise by ducking into her motorcar and pulling out a small, strange-looking bottle, from which she squirted a globule of clear liquid onto her hand. She closed the bottle and rubbed the liquid around her hand like soap. "Hand-sanitiser," she said by way of explanation. "Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I'm going to call home really quick."

"I beg your pardon?" Holmes asked, cocking an eyebrow.

She held up a small, sleek, shiny… _thing_. I had absolutely no word for it. "Cell-phone," she clarified. "It's a small, portable version of a telephone."

I believe I gaped. "Surely not! That thing—a _telephone_?"

Our hostess-to-be laughed lightly. "It's a whole new world, Doctor Watson, as the two of you have probably already realised." She affectionately patted the door of her motorcar. "Things like phones and cars have become incredibly efficient over the years."

Holmes's previous curiosity faded to something akin to distaste. The London he had left behind to take up bee-farming was not the London we had known, a London in which motorcars were replacing hansoms, electric lights gaslights, and a new generation replacing our own Victorian age. Sherlock Holmes, no longer the world's _only_ consulting detective, could not believe that he had a place anymore in the dawning new era, and so had retreated from it to the safety of a (mostly) anonymous life in Sussex.

I, however, had refused to escape from the changing times, choosing to adapt rather than to ignore. When Holmes had left London, I bought a practice on Queen Anne's Street and faced the winds of change. I had my own telephone in my office (this was Holmes's only willing concession to the modern age, for he had a 'phone in his sitting room). I had also been in the process of being taught the fine art of motorcar driving by Stamford. I did not always appreciate the change, but I could endure it.

I would do so now—and I was uncertain as to how exactly my old friend would react to this day and age. Would he be unable to cope with even more drastic change, or would facing a world perhaps entirely different from our own be easier to handle? Either option was a possibility.

Kathleen Duran shrugged slowly and slipped back into her motorcar, shutting the door behind her and _opening_ her cell-phone. She held up her finger in a one-minute gesture as she brought the phone up to her ear.

"Holmes?" I said quietly.

"Hmm?"

"Let's give her some privacy," I advised. "No doubt it will be difficult for her to explain our arrival."

He smirked slightly. "I can't even imagine."

We strolled away from the motorcar, and I turned my gaze to the not-so-distant mountains. The sun was bright and high, and the air fresh with the scent of pine. "This is beautiful country," I murmured.

Holmes merely nodded, thrusting his hands into his pockets and staring out into the distance, as if his gaze could pierce straight through wood and stone. I could not help but remember our case with Miss Violet Hunter: taking that train ride out through the countryside to Winchester, and Holmes remarking on how he could only see the country's remarkable capacity for crimes committed in secret. I smiled slightly and shook my head—that case had been fourteen years ago this spring, and Sherlock Holmes had changed gradually over the years… a little bit softer, a little bit wiser. Certainly, he now had a much keener appreciation for life away from cities and towns.

We stood there in the sun, silent and unmoving, content just to be together.

The clicking of a door opening behind us broke that silence, and I turned to see Kathleen emerging from her motorcar once more. She blew at a loose strand of hair and quirked a smile. "Well, _that_ was one of the more interesting conversations of my life," she said wryly. She opened the second door and gestured at it. "Gentlemen…?"

"Coming," I smiled. Holmes leaned back on his heels, glanced over his shoulder, and nodded. I returned to the motorcar, limping slightly, Holmes a couple of paces behind me. I climbed into the motorcar and shook my head in awe at the luxurious interior. Holmes raised an eyebrow as he seated himself beside me, but his expression was inscrutable, revealing nothing of his inner thought processes.

Kathleen shut our door, then hurried over to the driver's side and climbed in. "Seatbelts, gentlemen," said she, showing us how the fabric straps tucked into the seats served as a harness to keep oneself in place while driving. Then she buckled her own seatbelt and started the motorcar. It revved to life with much less noise than the automobiles of our day, and I noted that the driving controls were also far more complex. The vehicle started forward, and I marveled at the absolute quiet of the machine. Yes, there was noise, but it was a sound that quickly became background noise, easily ignored. And the luxury of driving in a _completely covered_ vehicle was nothing short of wonderful.

"Mrs. Duran," Holmes called, "might I inquire as to your profession?"

Kathleen glanced in what I would later learn was the rearview mirror and said, "What makes you think I have a profession?"

"You're testing me," Holmes said coolly.

"I'm honestly curious," she retorted.

"Your occupation, whatever it may be, is an odd one that you would be leaving for home in the wee hours of the morning after having been awake for at least a full twenty-four hours," he told her. "The lack of luggage says that you have not been traveling a full day's journey, nor have you been visiting with family. The case beside your seat smacks of business rather than travel. Your clothes are obviously in favor of practicality and durability more than looks."

I shut my eyes, hoping that Kathleen Duran was not a vain woman—that last observation could have been better worded.

"Touché," Kathleen conceded. "I don't think you'll believe me, though."

"As you say here in America, try me."

There was a pregnant pause. "All right. I'm an independent investigative consultant."

Holmes processed that declaration only one moment quicker than I did, and blinked. "An independent investigative… a private consulting _detective_?" he said, surprised.

"Good Lord," I murmured.

"That would be correct, Mr. Holmes," she replied. There was a slight smile to her voice as she said, "May I say what an honour it is to meet the father of my profession?"

I chuckled. Holmes's face settled back into impassivity, and I wondered what precisely he thought of the compliment, coming as it did from a woman. I also wondered, briefly, if Kathleen Duran could match Irene Adler in the admiration of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

"I've been on my feet, more or less," Kathleen continued, "for the past seventy-two hours, on a case in Brooklyn—excuse me, New York City. Case closed, heading home, and looking forward to two cups of coffee and a home-cooked brunch. The both of you are welcome to brunch if you want."

"Breakfast was light," I told her. "I would not mind."

From where I sat, I could see her nod. "All rightie. I should warn you gents, though—I have a big family. Eight children, twenty-three to five. The eldest is out of the house, but all the rest are still at home."

Holmes looked distinctly uncomfortable, and I could not blame him. "Are they…" I faltered, trying to think of how to phrase my question diplomatically.

I did not have to. "Wild, loud?" Kathleen finished. "Ehhh, sort of—not anymore than any other batch of children in the world. And, well, my family is always getting compliments on how well-behaved the kids are. I'm not lying or falsely proud when I say that my children are, on the whole, very good kids. They're considerate, and they get along better with adults than they do with most children their ages."

"I shall take your word for it," I smiled.

She chuckled. "You'll see."

The rest of the hour-long ride passed in relative silence, broken only by a few attempts at conversation on the part of myself and our hostess. Holmes remained absolutely silent, seemingly lost in the complexity of his own mind.

The path from the road to the Duran home wound long through the woods. "This is quite a private drive," I remarked.

"That's the idea," said Kathleen. "When David and I bought this property, we had privacy and security in mind." A shadow seemed to fall over the motorcar in accordance with her sudden solemnity. "Criminals have not hesitated in the past to try to use my children against me."

I shivered, trying to imagine what kind of life Kathleen Duran had inadvertently burdened her children with by her career. A life of worry, jumping at shadows and living in fear of being used against their own mother. I did not discover till later how mostly untrue that notion was; nonetheless, it was a sobering concept.

Holmes's voice quietly broke into the conversation. "Was that how your husband died?"

Kathleen answered promptly, but her voice almost broke as she did so. "Yes."

A few moments later, we emerged into a clearing, and Kathleen pulled to a stop before a large, sprawling stone house. She pulled the key out of what I would later learn was the ignition, and sank back into her seat, running her hand over her face and resting it over her mouth.

After half a minute of silence, I ventured quietly, "Mrs. Duran?"

She stirred and gave me a small smile. "Kathleen, Doctor, please."

I nodded. "Kathleen."

She exhaled heavily. "I'm sorry." She reached for a well-worn black fedora that I now realised had been resting on the passenger seat, settled it onto her dark head, grabbed her business case, and clambered out of the motorcar, opening the door for us once more. "C'mon." She turned and jogged up the stone steps to the house, leaving us to exit the automobile alone. I shut the door behind us just as she disappeared inside the house, and we could hear a chorus of enthusiastic, affectionate greetings as the children welcomed their mother back.

I glanced at my companion. "Well?"

He scowled. "Nothing I should enjoy more than an indefinite stay in a house full of children." Holmes stalked up the steps ahead of me, thus not seeing my amused head-shake.

The broad oak door of the house swung open again, held in place this time by an attractive girl no older than twenty. She looked at us with a mix of wonderment, respect, and genuine affability. "Come on in," she smiled.

Holmes gave the girl a brief nod as he passed her, and I gave her a rueful smile before following him into the foyer. The door shut behind me, and the girl leaned against it, her arms folded behind her back. I turned to see six children all but staring at Holmes and myself, the youngest a small girl in the arms of her mother.

"Kids," Kathleen said slowly, smiling, "this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. Mr. Holmes, Doctor, my firstborn Christy over there—" she nodded to the girl that had let us in—"Jeremy"—a lad in his late teens and nearly as tall as Holmes—"Cameron"—a lad of about fifteen—"Ruth"—a girl only a year or so younger—"Kirk"—a lad right around thirteen—"Edward"—an eight-year-old—"and Aubrey." Aubrey was the girl currently clinging to her mother.

All seven children smiled rather shyly at us, and I nodded back genially, bending down when little Edward stepped forward, wriggling with suppressed energy. "You're really Dr. Watson?" he asked me.

"Yes, sir, Master Edward," I smiled. I glanced over my shoulder at my companion, who simply stood there by a bookshelf, looking rather at a loss.

The small lad followed my gaze and bounded over to Holmes, looking up at him with a beseeching expression. "Mr. Holmes, can I be a Baker Street Irregular?"

That was the key we needed to unlock the tension, and everyone but Holmes burst out laughing. Holmes merely smiled in genuine amusement, chuckled, and said gently, "I'm rather afraid that's impossible, dear boy. This isn't the right time or place for you to do it, and I wouldn't let you if it were."

"Why not?" Edward pouted.

Holmes lowered himself to rest on his haunches, so that he was looking up slightly to meet the child's eyes. "Well, for one thing, I live in the country now, not in London—that is to say, I _did_ live in the country. And another, you obviously have a warm home and a loving family, and I wouldn't want to take you away from that."

"Bummer," Edward muttered, looking down and kicking at the wooden flooring.

I heard Kathleen's fondly exasperated sigh as she came to relieve Holmes of his little fan. "All right, honey, that's enough. Gentlemen, are you ready to eat?"

"Certainly," said I.

"I suppose," said Holmes.

"All right, Aubrey," Kathleen said to her youngest, "down you get."

"Nooo," the little girl moaned, burying her face into her mother's shoulder.

"Come on, honey," Kathleen wheedled. "I've gotta eat! I haven't had breakfast yet! Once I'm done, I'll be with you, okay?"

"Okay…" Aubrey slipped slowly out of her mother's arms and down to the floor.

Another woman, possibly a few years my senior, appeared in the foyer. "Food's ready," she told Kathleen, receiving a thanks before turning to Holmes and myself. "Hi," she said, eyeing us a bit warily. "I'm Clarice Evans—I watch after the children while Kathleen's away." Her tone, her expression, and her stance all said that she would put up a good fight protecting them, too, if it came down to that.

"A pleasure to meet you, ma'am," I greeted, extending my hand. After an infinitesimal pause, she shook it. I noted that my companion did not extend the same courtesy, and neither did she attempt to proffer it herself.

Across the space of a few yards and beyond the tension between an irate retired detective and a doubtlessly well-meaning caretaker, I met Kathleen's solemn gaze. After a few moments, she beckoned us back towards the door and began to pull off her coat, indicating that we should do likewise. I turned to hang my coat on the nearby coat-rack, and when I turned back, I saw my companion staring at our hostess.

She was removing a sidearm shoulder-holster, hanging it up beneath her leather coat on the rack so as to make it invisible.

In all my many years of investigation with Sherlock Holmes, I had never seen a woman carry such a large handgun so well concealed. Judging from the look on my friend's face, neither had he. The thought occurred me that, had she been so inclined, she might have shot one of us before he or I could react.

Kathleen appeared to take no notice of our astonishment, and led us into the dining room. "Coffee or tea, gentlemen?" she asked in a brisk, business-like tone as she moved around the table.

"Coffee, please," Holmes replied, moving to one of the three places set at the long table.

"Tea, thank you," I answered, taking the second set place.

Kathleen nodded as she hurried to a door opening into what I guessed to be the kitchen. "What kind, Doctor? I have… several different fruit flavors—" at this point, she was in the other room and calling through the open door—"mint, ginger, chamomile, bla—'scuse me, _Darjeeling_…"

"Darjeeling will do," I told her.

"All right, just a minute, then."

As we waited, I turned my gaze to the food spread out on the table. Flapjacks, maple syrup, biscuits, butter, scrambled eggs, sausage, and bacon awaited us, making my mouth water.

I glanced up to see Holmes's sharp grey eyes fixed on the open kitchen door. "Notice the comfort of our surroundings, Watson," he said quietly, "the subtle touch of affluence. Surely Kathleen Duran is rich enough to afford a housekeeper—possibly a full staff—or at least a maid, rather than leaving it all in the hands of a friend when on a case."

I blinked. "Now that you mention it, that _is_ strange. Perhaps they had to let their servants go over financial difficulties?"

Holmes's eyebrows drew together in contemplation. "I don't believe so. Did you observe their clothes?"

"Aside from their absolute peculiarity?"

One corner of his mouth pulled back. "No, no, the _state _of their clothing. Those clothes are well-made and recently-bought—very little wear and tear. Would a family in financial difficulty spend money on new, good-quality clothing when they could fix up their old garments to remain adequate?"

I frowned. "Well, that is a good point, old chap. But then how do you account for the lack of hired help?"

Holmes leaned back in his chair, his expression rather smug. "Quite possibly, such hired help is no longer used, anymore. We have come a hundred and twenty-one years into the future, Watson—who is to say that servants are no longer conventional in a family of good means?"

"Good heavens," said I, collapsing against the back of my seat. "Mrs. Duran was certainly right when she said it is a whole new world."

"Quite so," a distinctly amused voice floated from behind me. Holmes jerked forward in his seat in the same instant as I, and we stared in guilty surprise at our hostess, who stood leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded, face creased in an amused smirk. "At ease, gentlemen. Doctor, Mr. Holmes is entirely correct, and your tea will be finished in half a minute." She disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving us all but gaping after her.

"Holmes," I said cautiously, "I think we had best save deductions for a more private setting."

"I concur."

Before even half a minute had passed, Kathleen returned, bearing a tray of two mugs of coffee and one mug of tea. She handed out the mugs, then set the tray further down the table before taking her seat. "Shall we pray, gentlemen?" she asked quietly.

I nodded, lowering my head and closing my eyes.

"Dear Lord," she began, "thank You for this food, thank You for this day. Please bless this food to our bodies and give us a good day. Lord, give our guests peace as they adapt to their new surroundings, and guide them as to what You would have them do. In Your precious Son's name we pray—the name of the Lord Jesus Christ—amen."

"Amen," Holmes and I echoed. I proceeded to fill up my plate and attack it with vigour. Holmes, once he had taken a few bites, was scarce less enthusiastic, and I feared lest his table manners slip up as they had so often on Baker Street. Whoever had produced this meal was obviously an excellent cook.

Kathleen seemed to pay little attention to us, just to look at her, but I was often aware of her keen intelligence trained upon myself and my comrade. "After we're done here," she said at last, "I think I should introduce you Victorian gents to the computer." She nodded at a strange… machine?… sitting on a desk directly behind her. "I think you'll like it, Mr. Holmes," she continued. "It's a tool for information."

"Indeed?" said he, arching a dark eyebrow.

"Mm." Kathleen took a bite of her eggs and swallowed before pressing on. "Think of it as a successor to Mycroft." She winked at us—not in an untoward way—and I chuckled. "With the computer, you can reach the Internet, a worldwide…" Pausing, she looked at the ceiling, obviously trying to find the correct words for something she took for granted. "A worldwide data system," she finally decided. "Completely electric. You can input a search for just about anything and find it on the Internet."

"Completely electric," I repeated, and shook my head. "How far you've come in science, Mrs. D—Kathleen."

Her expression went somber. "Technology is not the only field in which we've progressed, Doctor. Our medicine, too, is very superior—and our medical morals anything but. New diseases have sprung up due to moral mistakes and mishandling of food resources. The twentieth century witnessed more than a hundred different wars and conflicts worldwide, and time has only increased our capacity to destroy places and people. Crime is more rampant now than ever."

She looked down. "If I could have chosen when to be born," she said quietly, "it would have been into your own time. It was a kinder age, never mind some of its disadvantages. The world… the world is only getting uglier, every day." Her eyes lifted and locked onto Holmes's. "_Our_ war—yours and mine—for justice, is a losing war. We're fighting the Long Defeat."

The silence that followed was deafening. Holmes said nothing, his grey eyes trained on his female counterpart in an expression that was a mix of incredulity, empathy, and comprehension. He likely understood her words better than I myself did, no doubt catching meaning in them that I simply did not know. Kathleen Duran merely stared at her food morosely, her previous good appetite gone.

When the silence was broken at last, it was by the voice that I least expected to hear. "If you truly believed that," Holmes said quietly, "you would not continue to fight."

A thought occurred to me: Holmes, too, had fought the Long Defeat against the changing era, and retreated when he knew it was hopeless. But one look at Kathleen told me that he was actually wrong.

She shook her head slowly. "No… No, I… I keep on fighting because, well—" she laughed shortly, humorlessly—"for one thing, I'm just too stubborn _not_ to. Giving up isn't in my nature. And more importantly… I was called to this life, just as surely as God calls a minister or a missionary. And _He_ never gave me orders to quit."

I nodded slowly, recalling a slightly similar feeling of _calling_ that I had had when first choosing the medical profession.

Holmes had brought his steepled fingers up to his mouth, his steely gaze still trained on our hostess, and I read genuine respect in his face. Then his expression hardened, the cold, calculating mask he showed the world slipping perfectly into place. "I admire such resolve, but, Mrs. Duran, please understand that I am not here to aid you—I am here to find a way home."

Kathleen's own expression did not harden so much as it merely calmed, her voice cool as she said, "I hadn't expected you to help, Sherlock." I wondered at her slip into using his Christian name, but he himself gave no indication of noticing. "I brought you here to help you, _not_ the other way around."

"However," I interjected, not wishing to witness a conflict between two great intellects, "as you've been so kind as to put us up for the time being, I don't see why we can't repay the favor in whatever way we can." Seeing Holmes's incredulous but irate gaze turn to me, I hastened to add, "Within reason, of course."

"Of course," Kathleen echoed, her brown eyes suddenly twinkling with amusement at the brief exchange between Holmes and myself. She took a sip of her coffee, and added, "Let's just finish this meal so we can start our computer lessons."

I eyed the machine—or was it _machines_? for there were several strange objects upon that desk—behind her, intrigued. "Certainly."

**Author's Note:**

Well, that was a much longer chapter than the first! But the only other stopping point I could settle on was too early—this is going to be a longish fic, and I don't want it chopped up into little pieces.

The next two chapters are actually all but finished (getting sick can give you some good writing time), so they should be posted up soon! =D

Btw, the "successor to Mycroft" line is not mine, hence this acknowledgment so I'm not accused of plagiarism—it's fellow fan-author Catherine Spark's, from her wonderful fic _Holmes from Home_, in which Sherlock Holmes finds himself briefly in London, 2012. (Quite possibly, Kathleen is quoting the fic, since she's part of the fandom herself.) My own fic here was _not_ inspired by the other fic, but I will admit that I'm rereading it to make sure that I don't miss observations Sherlock would naturally make about the 21st century in favor of the story. Now go read _Holmes from Home_—it's good!

_**Please review!**_


	3. The Wonderful World of Computers

**Author's Note:**

Whoa, three favorites! Thank you to everyone who's subscribed, reviewed, and favorited!

More thanks to the wonderful teenelizabeth, who's been checking out each chapter for errors before I post. Love you, hon! *hugs* Btw, she has a collection of SH drabbles: "Case 100." Go check them out!

**To my reviewers:**

Pearlmaidenredskyla: Thank you, my dear. …Lol, very cute. ^^ Well, thank you very much! I've actually been worried about Holmes & Watson's lines—as in, hoping that I'm keeping their speech accurate to their own time period. Glad to hear you think I'm doing so well! (And the next chapter of _Destiny's Call_ is being worked on between my beta and myself! It _should_ be up by Sunday.)

Haiza Tyri: Thank you! I love time-travel stories, too—it's one of my favorite concepts, I think (this isn't the first time-travel fic I've ever done, either, lol). Thank you for the corrections as well—I'm trying to be as historically-accurate as possible, but I'm no expert, so some things do slip past me. On the tea thing, though, would it really matter how Victorians termed the tea? I mean, wouldn't Watson still know black is such and respond to how Kathleen calls it? Just… thoughts. And, y'know, I did think about the seatbelts, and I was going to look it up to see if they had seatbelts back in 1904 (and if they did, what exactly they were called), but I forgot to do it! *cringes* Methinks some research and editing are in order… So, thank you for your observations, and if you catch any further problems, _please_ let me know and I'll try to fix them! (And thank you for liking the story enough to think it worth improving!)

Brazeau: Thank you! There's a lot more Watson/kids interaction to come, and I'm going to enjoy doing that. =D

**==Chapter III==**

**The Wonderful World of Computers**

_To err is human—and to blame it on a computer is even more so._

—Robert Orben

_**(Holmes)**_

No sooner had Christy Duran come forward to clear away breakfast than Kathleen pulled us over to the computer desk. "First lesson," she announced. "Booting up a computer—or powering it up, if you prefer." She pointed to one large button on the large, boxlike machine, and to another button on the flat, black machine that looked rather like a picture frame. "Do you see the similarity?"

Watson merely blinked, but I said, "They both have the same symbol: that circle dissected by a vertical line."

Kathleen nodded. "On just about any indoor machine nowadays, that's the power button. If it has that symbol, that means that you press it to activate the machine."

I nodded back. "Sensible."

"That should be easy to remember," Watson murmured, in a rather relieved tone of voice.

"Uh-huh." Kathleen pressed the button on the box, and then the frame—the frame instantly came to life, displaying the word _Dell_ in large, bold lettering. "This is the computer, and this is the monitor," she explained, pointing to each. "The computer is where all the work takes place—all the data input and output—and the monitor is where you can see it all. And this—" she pointed to a device that looked very much like the keys of a typewriter—"is the keyboard. The keyboard is the control unit of the computer, and it's also where you type, like a typewriter. The other way that you control the computer is by touching the monitor, and I'll show you how in a minute. Monitors didn't used to be like this just fifteen years ago, but nowadays, they're touch-screens."

A blue background flashed up on the monitor, bearing five different small pictures. Kathleen raised her finger to the screen to touch the second picture from the top, then growled—seemingly at herself—and said, "That's the user menu. A computer can have several different user systems on it…" She trailed off as she took in the blank looks of myself and my companion. Her posture drooped, and she drummed her fingers on the desk. "Okay, in the early days of computers, you could have only one user system: one place on the computer where you could do your business. For the past couple of decades, however, computers have given you the option of creating several different 'work places.' I.e. if you had a small family, you could have a work place for every member of your family, and each work place would be fitted to their own personal tastes and needs. _This_ computer is the family computer, so it has five different users on it: one for myself, one for the family—which is the user we're on right now—one for Dominic, one for Christy, and one for Jeremy."

"Dominic?" Watson repeated.

"My oldest," Kathleen explained. "The one who's out of the house. He was an adoption."

"Ah."

Our hostess proceeded to educate us in the usage of the computer, and her remark that I "would like it" was a severe understatement. I was completely fascinated with this marvel of technology, and could hardly wait for our lesson in using the thing to be finished so that I could start using it myself.

Kathleen noted my enthusiasm and laughed. "Ho boy, the great Sherlock Holmes is going to turn into a computer junkie. What have I done?" She threw her hands into the air melodramatically, eliciting a laugh from Watson and a scowl from myself.

"Computer junkie?" I echoed.

She sighed, still grinning. "Relax, Mr. Holmes—it was just a joke. _Computer junkie_ basically means you're addicted to using it. But don't worry: _I'm_ a computer junkie, and it never hurt me." She flashed Watson a reassuring smile, who simply raised an eyebrow and shook his head.

Watson was the first of us to use the computer, saying that once I got started, I would likely be at it past suppertime.

Well, I certainly could not argue with that logic.

At last, I had my turn and attacked it like I would an intriguing mystery—which, in all fairness, it was. I decided to start by browsing the databanks of Wikipedia: rather mindlessly at first for enjoyment, then more seriously as I began to look up subjects of more import. It would take too long to list everything I saw that first day, and I fear I would bore you, dear reader, as well. But what I learned that day, by turns, intrigued, shocked, and horrified me.

I brought myself "up to speed" on world history, learning of the First World War that had been brewing quietly even back in early 1904, continuing on to the Roaring Twenties and the depression that followed, and then World War II. The Holocaust was so apocalyptic that I was almost surprised that the world had not ended soon after—and so _senselessly_ horrific that I felt physically ill. What logic there _was_ behind it was utterly evil. At one point, I could no longer handle the descriptions I was reading, and stopped, pushing my chair back and closing the tab.

Kathleen's words about the world getting uglier had been, if anything, another understatement. Even I, who had seen many terrible crimes in my career and witnessed firsthand the depravity of the human nature, could not fathom how such horrors could be committed so coldly. Pray God that the hundreds of thousands of victims were avenged in the next life.

I continued on through my search of history, going through the reformation of the nation of Israel, the Korean War, Communism, the Cold War, the Space Race that ended in America landing men on the moon, the Vietnam War (the idea that it had not been a true war since a state of war had never been declared was ridiculous and served only, in my mind, to mock the men who had fought for Vietnamese liberty), the Berlin Wall, the rather dubious end of the Soviet Union, the '90s, the disaster of 9/11, the new Afghan war (which invariably put me in mind of Watson), and—to my surprise—the Second American Civil War. In reading through this last event, I discovered that my own hostess had been a war hero—not of the United States of America, but of the _Sovereign States of the Constitution_, or the SSC. I also discovered that Kathleen Duran had her own article on Wikipedia, and I clicked on it, scrolling down immediately to read more of her wartime involvement.

Officially, she was now a retired Colonel of the now-disbanded SSC Air Force—unofficially, but more importantly, she had been a spy in the USA during the war. While her children were shipped out to family living in Israel, her husband, Dr. David Duran—an army physician—joined the SSC Army out West, while Kathleen remained behind in New York to continue her fight against crime _and_ help the SSC behind enemy lines. Her service as a spy, however, ended short about midway through the war when she was found out—the article did not say how, but I could guess that it had taken quite a lot to uncover Kathleen Duran's allegiance to the seceded states. She was sentenced to death for treason, but rescued by her own husband and a Special Ops team. From there, she entered the SSAF and quickly worked her way through the ranks, achieving the rank of Colonel but refusing the commission to become a General.

Both husband and wife came out of the conflict with honors, each bearing a Purple Heart for valiant service.

Curious as to how the civil war had ended, I clicked back to the main article. The Sovereign States were reabsorbed into the United States, but not through defeat—the SSC _won_ the war. There was a good deal of political and ideological information surrounding that outcome that I did not fully understand, and I decided to ask Kathleen sometime to explain it for me. I returned to her article and started reading from the beginning.

* * *

_**(Watson)**_

While Sherlock Holmes spent the afternoon lost in what Christy Duran lightly termed "The Wonderful World of Computers," I explored the large Duran house. It was truly a beautiful home, subtly affluent as Holmes had observed, but just right for a large family. Kathleen showed me to the two guest rooms where my friend and I would be staying, then left me on my own to wander her home. I learned that the sitting room was now called the "living room" in the States, and it was there that I first visited.

Colour photographs adorned the empty wall space, and I studied the older images, depicting a much younger Kathleen and her deceased husband. Mr. Duran—I did not yet know his Christian name and profession—had been a tall man roughly Holmes's height, well-built, handsome, and several years older than his wife. As I continued my study of the photos, I came across one where Mr. and Mrs. Duran stood in what was obviously military uniform, though I had no idea how to interpret the emblems on their attire. Beside the frame hung two plaques for honor in service: one to a Major David A. Duran, M.D., and the second to a Colonel Kathleen A. Duran, S.S.A.F. So, her husband had been an army physician like myself, and Kathleen herself—a woman!—had been a Colonel, and was still one for all I knew!

I pressed on through the pictures, a veritable family history in photo form, and eventually hit upon the period after David Duran had died. It was a family portrait, but lacking the father—and despite the smile on her lips, the look in Kathleen's brown eyes was a look with which I was all too familiar. Loss, and a gnawing heartache that never completely healed.

I was struck by the difference between the vibrant, daredevil Kathleen in the early photographs and the older, haunted Kathleen some fifteen years later. To see her now, she had obviously come a good way along in her healing, but the hurt remained. In that moment, my heart went out to her.

I moved on to the next photograph.

* * *

_**(Kathleen A. Duran)**_

How do you handle coming across two men, widely believed to be fictional, from the Victorian Age? Much less taking them into your own home?

By taking it just one step at a time.

If I tried to think the whole thing out, it would make even _my_ gifted brain spin. So I chose not to and, for once, decided just to go with the flow. These men obviously needed a helping hand, and I'd be doggone if I wasn't going to give them that hand.

It was the most incredible thing I'd ever seen, though: two men looking as if they'd just stepped out of the Granada TV studio, look-alikes—not identical, but close enough—to Jeremy Brett and David Burke. And _then_ they start talking like they truly _were_ the parts they looked.

My mind instantly ran through the possibilities. That they could be Stirling's men in an elaborate trap for me was impossible—there was no point to it. That they could be conmen was also next to impossible, for the same reason. That they were lunatics was much more probable, but how could certified lunatics get their hands on complete Victorian attire? The only possibility left was that they were absolutely who they said they were, and that was a fascinating and thrilling conclusion—so much so that I purposely left room for margin of error. I would not let my excitement cloud my judgment, even if my instincts were telling me to trust them.

I would not rule out time-travel as unfeasible. Science fiction is one of my loves, and throughout my career, I've seen some pretty strange things myself. Just because there was no concrete record of time travel other than the distinct possibilities of the prophet Daniel and the Apostle John in the Bible, did not mean that time-travel was impossible.

Now I found myself in the singularly _interesting_ position of being a sort of _caretaker_ for Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. It was a challenge I relished, though I might not have been so excited had I known what I would have to explain to them that night. Blissfully unaware of the coming confrontation, I left the two capable men to their own devices and settled into the den to type up my report on my latest case for Chief Investigator Michael Warren in New York City.

* * *

_**(Watson)**_

The sun was hastening towards the West when I at last came upon the family library. A wonderful library it was, too: stocked, it seemed, with every sort of book a public library would have. I discovered that book-binding had also changed, no longer done solely in leather and paper, but in what appeared to be some sort of celluloid, as well. I was skimming over the well-filled classics section when I stopped short, astonished.

_Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Works_.

For a few moments, I was frozen. Then, slowly, I reached up for the enormous volume, resting it on my right forearm and carefully opening it. "By… Sir Arthur Conan Doyle," I read aloud, frowning. My editor was to receive credit for _my_ work? Doyle _knew_ how much my stories meant to me!

I stood there for a moment, quite angry. Then, pushing my anger back, I leafed through the pages, stopping at the table of contents. _A Study in Scarlet_, _The Sign of the Four_, "A Scandal in Bohemia"… I perused the list, and, quite unexpectedly, came across several titles with which I was unfamiliar, "The Adventure of the Lion's Mane" and "His Last Bow" among them. Flipping to the end as quickly as I could, I began to read "His Last Bow." The story was set a good decade after our disappearance from 1904, a seemingly pre-war story—I had not yet learned of the World Wars as my friend was currently doing.

I set the book down on a nearby end table and began to pace the room slowly. These unfamiliar stories were all set _after_ 1904, and there seemed to me to be two logical conclusions. The first was the most obvious: that Holmes and I would indeed return to our own time and continue on with our lives, and these future cases were just that—part of our future. The second rode upon the heels of the first, though quite different: that Holmes and I would _not_ return, and Doyle had taken the liberty of continuing to give the public more Sherlock Holmes stories, fictional though they were.

I wondered which conclusion was true, and decided to discuss it with Holmes later. I found several smaller volumes of my stories (including an aged-looking _The Boys' Sherlock Holmes_ copyrighted 1936, which edited out all reference to Holmes's use of cocaine) and concluded that the _Complete Works_ was a collector's item, and the smaller books were for actual enjoyment. I was delighted to find a book titled _The Pictorial History of Sherlock Holmes_, containing the original Sidney Paget drawings from _The Strand_ as well as photographs from dramatizations. It was another enormous book, and I settled down on the room's one settee to enjoy it.

* * *

_**(Kathleen)**_

I was curled up on the couch in the den, absorbed in a _Star Wars_ novel, when Christy swung into the room, announcing that it was dinnertime. "Mr. Holmes is still on the computer in there," she added with a smirk.

I laughed. "I'll be right there, hon." I tossed my book onto my desk and hurried over to the dining room, where the kids were settling in and Sherlock Holmes was, indeed, still surfing the Web. Dr. Watson arrived a few seconds after me, took one look at his friend, then shrugged apologetically at me. I grinned and shook my head, motioning him over to his seat. I moved on to the computer desk and lightly leaned my right forearm on the computer, bending over to see Sherlock's expression of intense concentration and his current topic of interest—forensics. I wondered if he even noticed my presence, then figured that he did—after all, I could pull the same dead-to-the-world act while I was absorbed with something and still be conscious of the world around me. "Hey," I said quietly, smiling. "Dinner."

"Mm," was his only reply.

I rolled my eyes and—hesitating only momentarily over whether or not this would be a stupid move—reached down to turn the monitor off. He jerked to life then, glaring up at me with an intensity that few people could match. Fortunately, I was one of them, and I remained very calm. "Dinner," I repeated with all the finality suited to my twenty-thee years of motherhood.

"If it is all the same to you," he said coolly, "I should like to continue my research."

"You may," I agreed, "_after_ ten minutes. Just ten minutes of break-time, Mr. Holmes, and then you can come back, okay?"

Thankfully, the kids were too busy in filling their plates at the buffet table to notice the altercation, but Dr. Watson's worried gaze was upon us. I tried one more time. "Mr. Holmes, please. Missing meals isn't exactly healthy."

"I seem to have lived through many a missed meal," he returned icily.

I sighed. "Fine. Whatever. Just…" I tightened my jaw and looked away, "just be careful what pops up on that screen, all right? I don't want the children to see something they shouldn't."

I glanced down in time to see the hard lines in his face soften somewhat as he turned the monitor back on. "Very well."

I shook my head and joined the rest of the gang at the table. "Aubrey, do you want to pray?"

* * *

_**(Holmes)**_

Most of the children had gone to bed when Kathleen and Watson passed by the dining room, discussing the practical details of our stay here. "Mrs. Duran," I called over my shoulder, not rising from my seat at the desk. Kathleen and Watson reappeared in the doorway.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, a bit irritably as she approached. "Don't forget, I have kids that are trying to get to sleep."

"My apologies," said I.

"What is it?" she sighed, folding her arms and leaning against the table.

I inclined my head toward the monitor behind me.

She looked over my shoulder, and her face hardened and paled simultaneously. "Yes?" she said in a tone to match her expression.

I leaned back slightly. "I have come upon several incomplete points in your illustrious history, _Colonel_ Duran—perhaps you would care to enlighten me?"

"And if I refuse?" she said flatly.

"Come, come, you already know so much of mine and Watson's personal history that it is only fair."

Watson stepped into the room, a cautious look in his hazel eyes.

For what might have been fully half a minute, Kathleen Duran said nothing, her eyes distant. At last, her tough exteriour seemed to crumble, and she turned back to me, with a brief glance at Watson. "Come on to the living room," she said wearily. "I'll tell you all about it."

**

* * *

Author's Note:**

The 1936 copyrighted _The Boys' Sherlock Holmes_ is absolutely real, right down to the cocaine being edited out of SIGN (and yes, it is in my possession—you gotta love antique stores!). _The Pictorial History of Sherlock Holmes_ is also real, and in the possession of teenelizabeth (I envy her…).

The idea of the Second American Civil War is inspired by both real life (yes, real life) and the alternate-history novel _When the Almond Tree Blossoms_—an _excellent_ read (so go read it!).

_**Please review!**_


	4. Ghosts of the Past

**Author's Note:**

Short but vitally important chapter.

Important Note—those of you who've been reading other fanfics of mine know that, when characters swear, I blank out the words. I'm finding this story to be a little… different. I might still blank out some swearing, but other words will make it past my censorship. Just to let you know. (Oh, and I don't consider "damn" to be a swear when used in the proper setting, i.e. "condemn.")

**To my reviewers:**

Historian1912: Oh WOW. I know several people in my church who were/are Marines, and even one mother who was an NBC (nuclear-biological-chemical, for the layperson) specialist, and my grandpa was once in the army without ever seeing action, but… *whistles* I didn't know military families still existed! That is _really_ cool. Hey, I just might take you up on that offer sometime! (I am _hopelessly_ incapable, lol.)

Unfortunately, you won't be getting any more info on the War in _this_ chapter, but there should be more material in the future. And, y'know, I actually _thought_ of you specifically as I was writing that bit in the last chapter. Really, I did!

Ha-ha, glad you like computer junkie!Holmes! Personally, I think it's very much him and very cute besides. ^^ As for the eventual outcome of the story… well, of course, my lips are sealed. ;-)

Sir Arthur's authorship will be discussed in greater detail later. I'm splicing Canon and Real Life History together with kid gloves on—in other words, I'm handling this veeery carefully. But don't worry, it's going to be interesting.

Pearlmaidenredskyla: Thanks, sweetie! Glad you loved Kathleen's POV, 'cause you're about to get a lot more of it! ^^

**==Chapter IV==**

**Ghosts of the Past**

_I am the Voice of the Past That Will Always Be_

_Filled with my sorrow, and blood in my fields_

_I am the Voice of the Future_

_Bring me your peace_

_Bring me your peace, and my wounds, they will heal_

—"The Voice"

My name is Kathleen Duran, middle name Aubrey, maiden name Stewart. I will be forty-five years old this coming May. I was born here in New York State, and I will, in all likelihood, die here, as well.

From a young age, I knew I was smart and talented. I was blessed with a godly family that nurtured me and helped me grow up right, and I know I was fortunate to have that.

For as long as I can remember, I've loved the Sherlock Holmes stories. My dad was a big fan, and, as a result, my siblings and I grew up watching the Granada television adaptation on PBS. I first started reading the books when I was ten—despite my having viewed the TV series, my mom was rather leery of allowing me to read them that young, and there were only certain stories I _was_ allowed to read. By my fifteenth birthday, however, I'd read the series in its entirety, and my obsession with those stories was rivaled only by my love of _The Lord of the Rings_ and _Star Wars_.

Sherlock Holmes was my hero.

When I was twelve, I actually managed to solve a few mysteries of my own—real crimes solved by a real girl. But when the last one resulted in my being kidnapped, well… when I was able to _sit_ down again, I firmly resolved not to tangle myself up in any more crimes until I was _much_ older. That… lasted all of four years.

My only older sibling is my half-brother Tim, eight years my senior and my very own Mycroft—though Tim is now a General in the air force, not a human databank in the government. Tim was already in the military when I turned sixteen, and an old friend of his—a police detective by the name of Mike Warren—asked my brother if it would be all right to see if _I_ could solve a case he was working on. Detective Warren had apparently heard a lot about my Holmesian deductive powers from my brother, who possessed rather the same abilities himself—I think he would have taken the case himself, had he not already been in the military. Well, I was allowed to go, under the condition that I would be with Detective Warren at all times. It was a tricky case, but I solved it, and was told that I should seriously consider criminal investigation as a career.

It was a recommendation I took to heart. I studied up on detection, took martial arts classes, and, in general, tried to learn everything that could possibly be of use to me. I could already fire a shotgun, but now I trained with handguns, and I couldn't wait until the day I was old enough to buy my own.

I had just turned eighteen when I graduated from high school with excellent grades. I spent that summer doing various jobs to make money, moving in with an old family friend, Mrs. Donna Clarke, that fall in Brooklyn. It was there that I set myself up as an _independent investigative consultant_—I didn't want to sound like I was copping off the great Sherlock Holmes by saying that I was a private consulting detective, and neither did I want to identify with the class of Private Eyes. I _knew_ I could be my own entity just as well as my childhood hero had done, and I acted accordingly.

Business was, naturally, slow at first—slow all that first year. Mrs. Clarke was kind enough to pay for food and board, but I paid all other expenses, and I became quite poor. I took to writing short stories in my copious spare time, but they were all rejected, again and again. I started to despair of the vocation I had chosen, praying that I would be given a break.

I believe that all prayers are answered, whether positively or negatively, and even in my moments of darkest despair, I could not deny the feeling that I was _meant_ to be where I was, doing what I was doing. Nothing worthwhile ever comes easily.

By Christmas 1999 (I was nineteen by then), I'd gotten my lucky break in the form of breaking up a big smuggling ring. The police said they'd keep in touch with me. I was elated. From there, going uphill was still a slow and often agonizing process, but now I had hope. The next twenty-one months were good months.

Then 9/11 happened, turning my little world upside-down. I was right there when it happened, in the middle of investigating a crime. I was one of the people who went in there to rescue people, but I won't recount that experience. Enough has been said about it in other places, and those are memories I don't want to dredge back up.

When the war began in earnest in Afghanistan, I moved out to the frontline as a wartime correspondent. It was during that time that I met two men who changed my life forever: Matt Russell, a fellow reporter, and Dr. David Duran, the man who later became my husband.

I'd met Matt before, back in NYC, and now when we met up again, he was with a young French wife and a small baby boy. On the outskirts of yet another skirmish, he declared that he was going out there to get closer, and told me to stay with his family. Angry, I shouted after him that he was despicable. He'd effectively abandoned his little family to an acquaintance that had no obligation to him whatsoever. Only two days later, the young Mrs. Russell was killed in a bombing, and as the father had not yet returned, the care of baby Dominic fell to me. Moving with the troops as a babysitting reporter wasn't the greatest idea, and I settled for reporting from a newsroom to take care of Dominic properly.

A few months later, Matt showed back up, hunted by someone he wouldn't name (I later figured out the mystery man's identity) for important information he had. Even though I had the baby to think about, I wasn't about to leave Matt alone, no matter how atrocious his actions had been. We took to following the troops again, and in one battle, I was in the right place at the right time to save an army doctor's life. His name was David Duran.

Shortly afterwards, Matt was shot to death at night, and Dominic was kidnapped. I frantically searched for the baby, but after a couple of months, I had to face reality, no matter how much I _hated_ it: Dominic was gone.

I returned to Brooklyn, exhausted and haunted by all that I'd experienced out East. It was a good month before I was willing to take any cases. When I finally did, though, it wasn't long before I met back up with Dr. Duran, who was going to rent a flat from Mrs. Clarke. David and I quickly became friends, and he began to follow me on my cases, needing something to do with his life other than mope around on medical discharge.

Yes, even then, I recognized certain eerie parallels between my own life and that of Sherlock Holmes.

Early in the summer of 2002, I crossed paths with another man who would change my life forever, this time for the worst. Richard Stirling.

Comparing Rick Stirling to Professor Moriarty would be a fair analogy, only I sincerely doubt that the Professor himself ever did as much as Stirling has. If you've ever watched the BBC series _Sherlock_, then you're familiar with the term "consulting criminal." That was _exactly_ what Stirling was—an independent criminal consultant, if you will. Stirling was a mass-murderer of the first water, and nobody ever came _close_ to catching him.

Until one tense standoff between him and myself, with David's life hanging in the balance. From that moment on, as corny as I know it sounds, Stirling and I were archenemies.

A few months later, however, saw a happier stage of my life begin: David and I got married at Christmastime. Before the next spring, the CIA had located Dominic Russell and returned him to the States—David and I decided to adopt him. Exactly a year after the adoption saw our own children born: twins, Christy and Neil. But disaster struck our happy little family that summer, in the form of a fire. Dominic and Christy were safe, but Neil died of smoke inhalation, almost before we could even get him to safety. His death was hard on us all.

But, five years later, I was pregnant with my fourth child. David and I had realized that there were certain ways to identify when a crime had been committed by Stirling's organization, and we also realized that, during my pregnancies, Stirling quieted his activity. We figured that, insane as it sounded, Stirling actually _enjoyed_ locking horns with me, and kind of gave up the game when I was out of commission. That conclusion led us to do something that, in retrospect, was probably a little silly: we had three children in as many years. As long as I was pregnant, Stirling didn't do much damage—until he figured out what _we_ were doing. In the middle of my third pregnancy, his more fantastic crimes flared to life once more, and I gave up on the idea.

Then, the USA was plunged into her Second Civil War. Sherlock has already provided a brief description of my service at that point in time, so I won't elaborate further here. Suffice to say that I was very grateful when it was over.

Three years after the war, I was kidnapped by Stirling's men. I wrote about that experience once already, and I won't do it again, save in the briefest summary. It was a nightmare. Let me remind the reader that I _am_ a woman, and though I am extremely capable of putting up an _excellent_ fight, I am a bit vulnerable in certain ways. All that I will say further on the subject is that what Stirling _did_ to me in those few weeks before my rescue turned my regard of him from professional respect to a very personal, very deep-seated hatred. I was psychologically unable to let even my own husband _touch_ me for a long time. I didn't truly heal from that experience until I finally allowed us to try for another baby. Nine months after that, little Edward was born.

Two years later, David and I were in the midst of a very dangerous case, with Stirling behind it. In one skirmish with Stirling's thugs, David was shot in the chest. He died in my arms.

Stirling seemed to go into hiding after that, which was fortunate for _him_. I was going to _kill_ him, and I was going to show absolutely no mercy. But I couldn't let myself be devoured by hate, much as I wanted to—I had seven children back home who needed me, and another on the way who would grow up without ever knowing her father. I wouldn't endanger myself needlessly to destroy that little life, or to let her grow up without _both_ her parents.

Stirling has been mostly quiet in the past nearly six years since David's death, and I've spent more time at home in those years than I ever had before in my adult life. It hurts, still: my soul mate being gone. There's an emptiness in my heart that will never be filled again. What's kept me going is not my work or my duty to my nation, but my _children_. God gave me a wonderful family, and I will be _damned_ if I ignore or abandon that. They're my reason for living.

* * *

_**(Watson)**_

Kathleen lapsed into silence. Holmes watched her pensively, steepled fingers pressed to his lips, expression inscrutable. I found it quite difficult not to stare at the remarkable woman before us. Did she realize how amazing she truly was? Did her children?

After a few minutes, she caught my gaze and smiled tiredly. "It's late, Doctor. Would you like to turn in for the night?"

"Erm, yes," I mumbled, embarrassed to be caught staring. We rose together, and I said aloud, "My sincerest condolences, Kathleen, for your loss. And my… my _deepest_ admiration for your own personal strength in surviving all that life has thrown your way." I felt Holmes's gaze upon me as I finished.

Kathleen shook her head. "If it was my own strength, Doctor, I would have shattered a long time ago. If you're going to credit someone, credit my Maker."

I inclined my head.

Kathleen looked over my shoulder to where Holmes was taking out a cigarette and lighting it—suddenly reminding me that neither of us had smoked all day. A shadow fell briefly over her face, then she shrugged. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."

"Goodnight, Mrs. Duran," he nodded, shaking out the match.

"Goodnight, Doctor," she told me quietly.

"Sleep well, Kathleen," said I. _You need it,_ I added mentally—those seventy-odd hours had indeed taken their toll upon her, with dark rings under her eyes and pale, drawn skin.

She nodded slowly. "Thanks." She left the living room, and I paused before following her, glancing back over my shoulder.

"Holmes?"

"Mm?"

"Are you going to bed?"

He looked up at me. "No, I don't think so—not for a while, at any rate." He pulled out his pipe and began to finger it. "I have a good deal to think on."

I nodded. "Goodnight, old chap."

"Goodnight, my dear Watson." That last was spoken in a low tone that held a little more emotion than I was accustomed to hearing from that voice. I frowned, wondering what was going on in my friend's formidable mind. I took one last glance at him and departed, ready for a good night's sleep after a long, incredible day.

**

* * *

Author's Note:**

Okay, I should probably now explain where this story came from in the first place. It started with the idea of a modern, female version of Sherlock Holmes, who was originally rather different from Kathleen Duran and went by a different name. The problem was that I could write the story as a long-shot, but where could I post it? It wasn't fan-fiction by any stretch—it was all original characters, albeit based on preexisting fictional characters. So, that's where Kathleen's fantastic back-story originated, and as the story went from adaptation to fan-fiction, her history grew. Somewhere along the way, I had the idea of Sherlock Holmes meeting Kathleen Duran (presumably in the 21st century), and the story spring-boarded from there. Ever since, I've had plotbunnies by the dozens knocking at my brain-attic. ;-)

Btw, if the name coupling "Christy and Neil" rings a bell in anyone's mind, it's the name of the heroine and one of the heroes of Catherine Marshall's famous Christian novel _Christy_. As Holmes and Watson will no doubt learn someday, Kathleen actually _did_ name her twins after fictional characters.

Other bits and pieces of the back-story that are based on other stories: The Matt-and-Dominic Russell plot arc is taken from the third _Anne of Green Gables_ movie (which has only the tiniest bit of basis in the real books). The initial standoff between Kathleen and Stirling briefly alluded to is derived from the climax of _Sherlock_ episode 3: "The Great Game." Baby Neil's death is inspired by the Christmas film _The Timepiece_, a prequel to _The Christmas Box_. The Second Civil War, as previously explained, is inspired in part by _When the Almond Tree Blossoms_. Finally, one could almost say that David's death is the worst-case AU scenario for Sherlock Holmes in losing his Boswell. Not a case of inspiration in this instance, but a parallel.

Oh, and both Kathleen's maiden and married names hold significance for me: _Duran_, I'll decline on explaining, but _Stewart_ came from the wonderful actor _Jimmy_ (a.k.a. James) Stewart, perhaps best known for the Christmas classic _It's a Wonderful Life_.

_**Please review! (I can't know that you like the story unless you do so! I have the next chapter finished, but reviews have a way of getting it posted faster!)**_


	5. Just Over the Dawn

**Author's Note:**

Of all the chapters I've written thus far, this one is my favorite.

Btw, if you're not in the habit of reading author's review replies, feel free to do so with mine. I often give away little background bits of information and even spoilers. (I also keep my tone very lighthearted, so please don't be offended if something I say sounds a bit irreverent towards the characters.)

**To my reviewers:**

Pearlmaidenredskyla: Well, thank you! I guess it _was_ an emotional chapter, wasn't it? (You think _that's_ deep, you should see some of my older Star Wars pieces. ^^) Heeey, you know _Christy_? That's great! That's one of my favorites! …I don't think I really need to reiterate my love of LotR and SW, hmm? Oh, I love mysteries—my problem is that I can't _write_ them. *gulp* And you know the _Anne of Green Gables_ movies! Yay!

And, awww, thanks! I'm sorry the next DC chapter isn't up yet, but it really _should_ be soon, okay? And be ready for many more updates on this story, because I've got enough inspiration to last me all the way through! =D

kissbee: Oh _wow_. Well, first off, thank you for your incredibly enthusiastic review! (Really, the _best_ fanfic you've ever read? Wooow… I am _very_ flattered!) That really made my evening! =) Okay… RDJ. Well, I haven't even seen the movie, so I can't offer an opinion on it one way or the other, except to say that if I ever did see it, I would probably still enjoy it just as a story in its own right and not necessarily as _Sherlock Holmes_. The _only_ Holmes I ever have _seen_, though, is Jeremy Brett, and a more perfect Holmes could not be had. Thus, the template, if you will.

I only saw _It's a Wonderful Life_ for the first time last Christmas but _instantly_ fell in love with it, and it is _absolutely_ one of my most favorite movies of all time. And Jimmy Stewart deserved a tribute: he was an excellent actor, a dedicated soldier and patriot, a loving husband and father, and a fine Christian man. Anyway… actually, I think the kids might someday lasso at least Watson into watching Pooh Bear with them… which is really a very adorable mental image. Indiana Jones… weeell, I've never seen it, so I don't know about that. Dr. Who, nope, 'cause I don't even know what the show's about, so… References are only going to be from things I _know_, y'know?

Well, the Duran family is drawn very much off of real life, and my Christianity is just too deeply ingrained in me to _not_ make it into my bigger fanfics. I'm very glad to know that it means so much to you.

Oh, Holmes and Watson are going to be seeing a _lot_ of shows, definitely (because while the overall story is very deadly serious, this is also supposed to be fun)—and Watson will enjoy a lot of them, and Holmes… not so much. xD Kathleen and I still need to work out if she's going to make Holmes sit through Star Wars, lol—I'm really not sure how he'd react to that. We'll see. ^^ Well, I can guarantee a viewing of the Granada series, and the other versions… well, Granada's the only adaptation I really know. I might kind of cop-out and say that Kathleen doesn't have any of the others (not entirely impossible). I'm not sure just yet. Holmes having an adverse reaction to interpretations of his character, though, is a perversely appealing thought. He might get to see _The Adventures of Young Sherlock Holmes_, 'cause I know a lot about it even though I've never seen it. And probably _Sherlock_, too (which should be interesting).

Well, I am definitely open to more ideas, so I look forward to hearing from you again! Thank you so much!

**==Chapter V==**

**Just Over the Dawn**

_And I'll know what I've lost_

_And all that I've won_

_On this road that will take me home_

—"Going Home," Mary Fahl, _Gods and Generals_ (film)

_**(Holmes)**_

I did not go to bed that night, as it turned out—I did indeed have a good deal to think upon. Kathleen Duran's story, from beginning to end, had captivated and even unnerved me. That I should be the role model for a young woman who would go on to become a war hero was rather humbling in and of itself, and that I should continue to be her inspiration for all these years was duly gratifying. I also found that I could actually empathise with the loss of her husband in some small way: my three-year disappearance from the public scene had been a terribly lonely business without my Watson.

What unnerved me, however, was how closely her life had paralleled my own, at points, and just how much her husband had seemed to fill a role similar to my own dear Watson's. David had been his wife's Boswell, of a sort: the anchor that her fast-paced mind needed to keep itself grounded, the shield at her back, the hands that healed the injuries she invariably sustained. How Kathleen could live without that influence in her life for six years was beyond even my powers to explain. I supposed that she herself had said it best when she credited it to Providence.

At that point in my contemplation, I stood and began to study the room, finding a wealth of further information about the family in my surroundings. Either David or Kathleen were Jewish—I then recalled the fact that one or the other had family in the young State of Israel—for there was a menorah candelabra on one shelf, with a miniature flag bearing the Star of David standing beside it. There was also good evidence of Kathleen's Celtic heritage in the various items around the room that bore Celtic knot-work and other such symbols.

At one corner stood an odd-looking piano—ah, at least one of the children had musical inclination, judging from the beginner's music book resting atop the instrument. I had already surmised that Kathleen could indeed play the piano: her fingers were long, her fingernails were kept trim, and she had a habit of drumming her fingers in a way that was reminiscent of hands moving across the piano.

I had previously learned from the Internet that entertainment was an enormous business in this day and age, so the Duran family's vast collection of moving pictures did not surprise me. There was a large set of what appeared to be children's films, most of them produced by the same _Walt Disney_ company. The adult films, however, were what captured my interest. It would appear that my hostess had quite the eclectic taste, from science fiction (_Stargate SG-1_ and other suggestive titles) to florid romance (_Father of the Bride_—what kind of horrid title _was_ that?) and everything in-between.

What did surprise me, though, was a box bearing the title _Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Collection_. Ah, of course: the dramatisation of which Kathleen had spoken in her story! Eager, I pulled the box out of the shelf and blinked in further surprise to find that the star of the show resembled me almost perfectly. The back of the box bore a description of the thing: a "Granada television" production… Jeremy Brett, David Burke, Edward Hardwicke… definitive performance…

I returned the box to its place and strode from the room, intent on looking up this adaptation on the Internet.

* * *

_**(Kathleen)**_

Preparation for church that Sunday morning worked around Mr. Sherlock Holmes, seated once again at the dining room computer. So absorbed was he in his research that I doubt he even noticed. The usual noises of a large family getting ready to go _anywhere_ fortunately did not wake Dr. Watson.

Clarice arrived early to take the children—if I arrived home from a case on a Saturday, I often stayed home the following Sunday morning. I was usually too tired to pull myself together enough to go out at all, much less to church. My ever-faithful helper would obligingly take the kids to church herself.

Clarice Evans was a retired Army veteran who had served in Operation Desert Storm as well as in Afghanistan. She was married, with one adult daughter and two grandchildren. She also attended our church, which was how we first met. Clarice was less than a mother to me but more than a good friend—perhaps an aunt? She was on-hand practically 24-7 when I needed her, and her service was invaluable. I owed Clarice Evans more than I could ever repay.

After the last kid—Cameron, incidentally—was finally out the door, I returned to the kitchen to fix myself a sandwich. Passing Sherlock, I called over my shoulder, "Breakfast?"

"No, thank you."

I shrugged, though he couldn't see it, and set about to make my own food. I was finished with my meal and on my second cup of coffee when I came back out to the dining room and leaned against the table. "Coffee?" I asked belatedly.

"That would not be amiss."

Something was wrong. Yes, I'd only just met the man—never mind knowing him through the stories—but something felt _off_. "What's wrong?"

"Subtlety, I see, is not one of your strong points."

"Don't sidestep me, Mr. Holmes—I'm too stubborn. Now, what's wrong?"

A sigh, more felt than heard. "Perhaps you can give a little insight into the matter." He swung the chair around to face me, and I hid a wince. He didn't look good—not _bad_, but he just didn't look like he'd had a good night, awake all night or no.

"Okay…" I said slowly.

"Jeremy Brett," he said without preamble.

"Ohhh." I pulled out a chair from behind me and sank into it, holding my mug in both hands. The warmth felt good. "You found out about what happened to him."

"If you mean his illness, depression, and death at a marginally young age for this time period, then yes," Sherlock snapped.

I exhaled forcefully and leaned back against my chair. "Oh, Sherlock… what can I say? Jeremy Brett was a brilliant actor—brilliant to the point of obsessive." I paused and set my mug on the table, wracking my brains for the right words. I was an excellent actress and a brilliant thinker myself, but though words came to me easily on the keyboard, they somehow failed quite often to aid me in one-on-one speech.

"I had always hoped," Sherlock interjected quietly into the silence, "that if I could leave behind a legacy, it would be one for the betterment of mankind. Instead, it brought misery and death to an innocent man."

"No, it _didn't_!" I snapped, concerned. Funny how words finally came when I got worked up. "Sherlock, you have to believe me when I say that Jeremy Brett's death _was __**not**__ your fault_. He _loved_ playing you—did you know that? How much did you read about him? Did you know that he had a tendency to depression? Did you know that he identified with you? Did you never once think that maybe if it hadn't been you, it would have been some other role? Did you know that his heart condition had started with illness as a child?"

"He _said_ I stole his _soul!_"

I jumped as the sentence ended in a shout.

Sherlock (yes, somehow that really _is_ what my mind has always called him) glared at me, his lips pressed into a thin, angry line.

I resisted the appealing temptation to match it, forcing myself to breathe slowly and focus on that. After a few moments, I said quietly, "I think you misquoted." He opened his mouth, but I held up my hand. "Wait, please." His mouth closed. "Sherlock… oh, boy… I… I grew up watching that show. I loved it."

He _looked_ at me, not really a stare but a _look_ of such _powerful_ concentration… I found myself wondering if this was what it felt like to be on the receiving end of my own intense focus.

"I remember reading about Jeremy Brett for the first time," I continued, my voice still soft. "I was so shocked. I couldn't believe that… that the man I'd grown up watching, playing my hero…" I discovered I had a huge lump in my throat, and water in my eyes. Great, my rather tenuous hold over my own lachrymal glands was the _last_ thing either of us needed right now.

I swallowed hard and pushed on past the mortifying croak that had crept into my voice. "With or without the task of playing you, Jeremy Brett _still_ would have died 'marginally young.' He just wasn't a well man. And the fact remains that _nobody_ _**forced**_ him to do the role. He _chose_ to, and he _chose_ to _continue_ that role, even when he _knew_ he was deteriorating. He wasn't forced, and he wasn't trapped. There was something to it that was _out_ of his control, and something to it that _was_ in his control: health and choice. He… oh, _doggone it_, Sherlock Holmes, _stop __**looking**__ at me like that!_"

His expression was controlled, but his eyes… The stories, I think, didn't give enough credit to the sheer _expressiveness_ of those grey eyes. Grief and guilt lay in those sea-grey depths.

"I am afraid," he said slowly, "that I am rather ill-equipped to deal with emotion. My apologies."

I had to give him something to show that Jeremy Brett's life had not been a dark one before Sherlock would let go entirely, I could see that. But that would take a little doing, and he needed some kind of reassurance _now_. So I did the only thing I _could_ do, entirely against Victorian propriety and his own nature though it was, and hope it would help a little.

I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him.

He went rigid within my embrace, and my hand came up instinctively to stroke his back in an effort to relax him. After a (mercifully for him) few moments, I pulled completely away and gave him a tentative smile. He stared at me in something akin to shock (at least it was better than that awful, consuming guilt), and I sighed. "You can't blame yourself for something you could not _possibly_ have _any_ control over."

…_Smoke, "Dear Lord, the babies!", fire, pleaseGoddon'ttakemysonfromme…_

I pushed the memories back and pressed on. "I learned that lesson a long time ago. All that's doing is setting yourself up in place of God. There are some things we can't be responsible for at all." I sat back down rather heavily and sighed, clasping my hands together and staring at them. "I really don't know what else to say."

Silence fell between us—not comfortable, but neither was it tense or heavy or awkward. "I believe," he said at last, "that you have said all that you _can_ say." I glanced up to see that _he_ was staring at his own clasped hands. "At least you have given me a good deal more to think on, and for that, I thank you."

"You're welcome," I said in a small voice.

He looked up at me then. "Are all women of your time so insightful?"

I had to laugh, however terse the laugh was. "Don't I wish! Nooo, I don't think so."

"Pity."

"'Tis true," I agreed with overdone ruefulness.

I was rewarded with the softening of some of the lines in his face. "Coffee?" I offered again.

He barked a terse laugh of his own, not unlike the laugh Jeremy Brett had given his character. "Yes, indeed, if you please."

I stood up and gave him a real smile. "I'll be right back."

* * *

_**(Watson)**_

Kathleen had warned me the night before that breakfast in her house tended to be an informal affair, with the exception of Saturdays and holidays. Thus, I believed myself to be prepared for whatever I saw that morning, especially given the oddities that I had experienced firsthand the previous day.

I was wrong.

I shuffled out to the dining room in too-large nightclothes and dressing gown (David Duran's, I was sure) to come upon Holmes and Kathleen (clad in her own rose-coloured dressing gown) seated across from each other at the table and drinking coffee in a silence that did not by any means feel awkward.

For Holmes to hold a possibly comfortable silence with a woman was quite extraordinary—even more extraordinary considering the fact that they were alone.

"Good morning," said I.

Kathleen looked up first and smiled. "_Buenos días, Doctor_." I blinked—was that Spanish?

Holmes gave her an odd look before nodding at me, saying, "Watson," and taking another sip of his coffee.

"Where are the children?" I frowned, for I had neither seen nor heard them since waking.

Our hostess's eyes twinkled over the rim of her mug. "Church."

"Church? Good heavens, I'd forgotten today was Sunday!"

Her smile broadened. "Don't worry—you'll get your chance to attend an American church next week."

I laughed. "Are you here then to keep an eye on us?" I suggested blithely.

She laughed in return. "No, no… I don't often go to church if I've just gotten back home the day before from a longish case." She leaned back in her chair, her brown eyes dancing. "The good Lord created the world in six days and rested on the seventh. I think I'm entitled to a little rest myself, one day out of the week."

I chuckled. "_Do_ you take cases on Sundays, then?"

She shook her head. "Nope. Not unless it's a someone-will-die-if-you-don't-get here-in-the-next-few-hours kind of case—or a quick armchair consultation. If it isn't, I can usually pick up the case early Monday morning—and I do mean _early_—and quickly make up for lost time." Kathleen stood and stretched. "Anyway… Doctor, are you ready for a sandwich and some coffee… tea…?"

"Coffee will do, thank you," I nodded. "And yes, a sandwich will be fine."

She gave me a hand-sign with her finger and thumb forming a circle—a gesture, I presumed, that she made on instinct and thus did not stop to think that it would have no meaning for me—and disappeared into the kitchen. I seated myself beside Holmes and folded my hands on the table.

"That dressing gown is not quite your size," my friend observed.

"Stunning deduction, Holmes," I retorted.

He grinned slightly at me. "Dr. Duran's, I take it?"

I nodded ruefully. "I think we shall have to buy ourselves some new clothes."

"Or rather, our hostess might do so for us." He and I shared a look—we already owed Kathleen for room and board, and to owe her beyond that rankled our pride.

"Don't worry, gentlemen—I'll think of some way for you to pay me back," Kathleen's voice floated from the other room.

"Do you make it a habit of eavesdropping on…" Holmes's voice trailed away as he realised what he was saying.

Her head popped back into the doorway. "Mr. Holmes," she said with a carefully deadpan expression, "I make a _living_ off of it."

I chuckled quietly as she vanished again, and Holmes threw me an irritated look. "She is rather too free with her wit," he said in a carelessly loud voice.

A highly unladylike snort sounded from the kitchen.

"Holmes," I cautioned, still trying to repress further laughter.

Kathleen returned, bearing a mug of coffee and an odd-looking sandwich on a plate. "Here ya go, Doctor," she said brightly. "Enjoy."

"Thank you," I said slowly. "Erm, may I ask what this _is_?"

"Oh, that's peanut butter and grape jelly."

"Butter from _peanuts_?"

She nodded. "It's good—I'm sure you'll like it."

I shook my head. "Eating experiences are apparently yet another thing that has changed with the times."

"Oh, that's nothing," she grinned. "Just wait till you have pizza on Friday."

* * *

_**(Holmes)**_

Kathleen returned to her seat and set her elbow onto the table, propping her cheek with her palm as she turned her gaze to the window near the computer desk. Her dark eyes were distant, and she looked relaxed and utterly at peace, so unlike the passionate, grieving woman whose story Watson and I had heard the night before. I wondered what, if anything, was going through her own remarkable mind right now.

Watson caught me studying our hostess and raised an eyebrow. I shrugged fractionally and sipped the last of my coffee, which was really quite excellent, before returning my attention to Kathleen.

During the Irene Adler case, I had observed that the lady in question was lovely, with a face that a man might die for. I had not exaggerated. The Woman had indeed been possessed of striking beauty, firm intellect, and strong character.

Kathleen Duran, on the other hand, was not what any man would call _lovely_, but there was fire and passion in the woman. That, coupled with her acute intelligence and strength of character, served to make her admittedly attractive features a mere veil over her radiant spirit.

And now I was beginning to sound like Watson's romanticised memoirs. How wonderful. Mercifully, the object of my errant thoughts now interrupted them.

"We're going to have to get your paperwork in order," she murmured.

"I beg your pardon?" said I.

"Paperwork." She turned from the window to face me. "Identification, passports… you need that."

"And how do you propose we go about setting up identities for ourselves?"

She smiled slowly. "Leave that to me. I've got good connections."

"In Britain?"

She nodded firmly.

"You _do_ have good connections," said Watson, surprised.

"I've had several cases in London," she said by way of explanation, taking another sip of her coffee. "Pretty nasty ones, too—London's got a high crime rate. 'Course, so does every other major city in the world." She rolled her eyes over her mug.

"You do keep case files, don't you?" asked Watson.

"Mm-hmm."

"I would like to see them—that is, if you don't mind."

Kathleen shook her head as she swallowed another sip of coffee, setting her mug down on the table. "Go right ahead—I'll show you where they are. I also keep an online record of my cases… David used to do it, too, and we'd say that the details that one of us missed in our accounts, the other would record, so between our accounts, you could get a totally accurate picture of the case. Or, at least," she added with a smirk, "as accurate as we can get sometimes without endangering privacy or national secrets." Her brown eyes twinkled with that last.

Watson was resting his chin in his palm. "I know what you mean."

She gave him a sympathetic look. "I'll bet."

I leaned back in my seat, steepling my fingers. "What is your style like in your accounts, Mrs. Duran?"

"Kathleen," she corrected absently. "Storyteller—very much storyteller. I do writing in-between cases, and I write a lot of fiction."

"Good heavens," I muttered. "More romanticised cases."

Kathleen and Watson traded knowing looks. "Yeah, and I'm not ashamed of it," she drawled, grinning cheekily. "I was born with a gift for words, I was born with a love of stories, and I combine that every time I record a case. Storytelling's in my blood—I _have_ to let it out. And there's something about venting the emotions of the case onto paper—or the computer—that's very therapeutic."

I gave her a skeptical look.

She leaned back in her own seat and folded her arms. "I can lock my emotions away on a case well enough, Mr. Holmes, but I don't disregard them entirely. I just don't let them get in the way, is all. And later on, it does feel _very_ good to see them typed out. I don't _care_ that the whole world knows that I cried over the death of a young investigator that I was just getting to be friends with—what matters is letting it out."

"And this… 'let-out emotion'—" I leaned forward—"does not affect your reputation?"

Watson watched with undisguised interest.

"In some cases, it's helped," she said candidly. "People know that I care."

"How does _caring_ matter to a case?"

"It doesn't," she admitted. "But it matters to _people_. And I'm here to help people just as much as I'm here to solve their problems."

"Help on an emotional level."

She smirked again. "Heaven knows they need it. I know you've had overwrought clients before—I get them, too. There's certainly nothing wrong with empathising with a young woman whose abusive father murdered her little brother in cold blood."

I understood her position, and even agreed with it somewhat. I had indeed had to comfort and empathise with my clients—and I also understood, though I would not have admitted it, that detaching myself from emotion on a case allowed me to carry on whereas giving emotion free rein might have been damaging. There are some horrors one must encounter with an emotionally-blank mind—to do otherwise could deter and even destroy oneself. "On a moral level, touché. On an intellectual level, such empathy might distract your mind."

"Or strengthen your resolve."

"Would your resolve need it?"

"Sometimes," she said quietly. "It's not something I'm ashamed of admitting, Mr. Holmes. Sometimes, I need more than the thrill of intrigue to keep me going on a case of serial murders or family betrayal, because those can get very ugly."

I sighed, leaned back in my chair, and gave a conceding wave of my hand. She was right on that last count, of course—and, being a woman who I believed felt things very deeply, she needed emotional as well as mental stimulation.

Emotions. And women. I would never understand either.

She shrugged fractionally and began to drum her fingers absently on the table in that piano-like manner. "You play the piano, do you not?" I said abruptly.

She glanced at me. "Yes."

"I don't suppose…" Oh dear. I discovered that I could not quite word that request properly.

I did not have to. "That I would play for you?" she smiled, glancing between myself and Watson. "I'd be delighted."

* * *

_**(Watson)**_

Kathleen—still in her dressing gown and her pajamas (female pajamas!) underneath—seated herself at the piano in the living room. "Anything in particular?" she asked Holmes, who shook his head. "Right then."

And without any music sheets before her, she began to play. There was a high, slow prelude, and then the piece began in earnest. And after a few moments, she began to sing.

_They say there's a place_

_Where dreams have all gone_

_They never said where_

_But I think I know_

_It's miles through the night_

_Just over the dawn_

_On the road that will take me home_

_I know in my bones_

_I have been here before_

_The ground feels the same_

_Though the land's been torn_

_I've a long way to go_

_The stars tell me so_

_On this road that will take me home_

I had expected her to sing soprano, and was duly surprised by her rich contralto. I noted that my friend was already lost in the world of music: his normally piercing grey eyes soft and dreamy, his lips curved in a gentle smile, and his long fingers waving in time to the song. It was not violin music as he was so fond of attending, but it was lovely, lovely music nonetheless, deeply poignant.

Sherlock Holmes was thoroughly captivated, and but for studying his reaction, I would have been, as well.

_Love waits for me 'round the bend_

_Leads me endlessly on_

_Surely sorrows shall find their end_

_And all of our troubles will be gone_

_And I'll know what I've lost_

_And all that I've won_

_On this road that will take me home_

There was an interlude, sweet and spirited and uplifting, and then the music faded to a much more sombre tone. The next lines of the song were hushed and soft.

_And when I pass by_

_Don't lead me astray_

_Don't try to stop me_

_Don't stand in my way_

_I'm bound for the hills_

_Where cool waters flow_

_On this road that will take me home_

I almost fancied that I could hear not only Kathleen Duran's own mourning in her voice, but the heartache of every death she had ever witnessed, the sorrows of every man and woman she had ever tried to help, as well. I attempted to shake it off for a silly, romantic thought as Holmes no doubt would, but it lingered on in my mind, long after the music had ended.

_Love waits for me 'round the bend_

_Leads me endlessly on_

_Surely sorrows shall find their end_

_And all of our troubles will be gone_

_And we'll know what we've lost_

_And all that we've won_

_When the road finally takes me home_

_I'm going home_

_I'm going home_

_I'm… going home…_

The music ended, gently, and Kathleen twisted around on the bench to look up at her audience. I nodded to her slowly, fully appreciative of her beautiful performance. "Thank you, Kathleen," I murmured. "That was lovely."

She smiled softly at me, and turned to Holmes, her expression now questioning, as a pupil to her master.

Holmes said nothing, merely regarding her for a long moment. At last, he lowered his head in what might have been more of a bow than a nod. "It was indeed a pleasure, Kathleen," he said in a low voice, and I knew that his soul was still wrapped up in another, kinder world.

"Thank you," she said quietly, brown eyes glowing. Closing the piano, she stood and said, "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I believe I shall go change my clothes." She glided out of the room, leaving Holmes gazing at the piano and myself gazing at him.

"Holmes?"

He lowered himself to the piano bench and reopened the instrument, placing his long, thin fingers on the keys. He found the first few notes of the song immediately, then resorted to trial and error to find the rest. I smiled and said, "I'll be in the library." A slight nod was my only reply, and I left the room, the halting notes of a bittersweet song haunting my steps.

**

* * *

Author's Note:**

It _had_ to be Watson narrating the piano scene. No one else could have done it. That was wonderful. I've used the song "Going Home" in a fanfic before (my longtime readers will know right away what I'm talking about), but that was not as much fun as this was. The Jeremy Brett scene and the piano scenes are my favorite here out of a long chapter. =)

And speaking of Jeremy Brett, you can read a more detailed account of his later years on Wikipedia, but I warn you that it's very depressing if you don't already know the story (and even if you do). I was inspired in this scene by the fic "Holmes from Home" (which I've mentioned before), in which Sherlock has quite a similar guilty, despairing reaction. This was my take on what I felt was an inevitable and IC conclusion to Sherlock finding out about Jeremy Brett, and writing Kathleen in this scene was just wonderful. Especially when she begged Sherlock not to look at her like he was doing.

My favorite lines in this chapter were from Sherlock and Kathleen in the next scene:

"Do you make it a habit of eavesdropping on…"

"Mr. Holmes, I make a _living_ off of it."

…Almost can't believe I came up with that myself, lol.

Btw, my mind actually _does_ call Sherlock Holmes by his Christian name (which is odd, since everyone else in the world calls him by his surname). But that's how it is, and it feels weird when I call him _Holmes_. Weird, isn't it? Watson is somewhat similar: he's always _Doctor_ Watson to me, and I rarely think of him otherwise.

_**Please review! (I need encouragement for this next chapter, which is stalling on me!)**_


	6. This Might not be so Easy

**Author's Note:**

A thousand apologies for not getting this out sooner! I actually had the first draft done early in the week, but my beta was so busy that she couldn't get back with me until yesterday (Friday). Good thing I waited for her, though, 'cause she pointed out a couple of things that needed fixing!

Also, I realize that the story may be moving a bit slowly here at first, but there's so much that Holmes and Watson need to adjust to. Don't worry, we'll pick up the pace eventually!

**IMPORTANT NOTE:** If you've ever read my profile, you know that I've written a fantasy novel (_The Rise of a Legend_. Well, I'm editing it one last time, and I've begun blogging about it at www (dot) theriseofalegend (dot) blogspot (dot) com. (Check my profile for better link.) Please check it out, and feel free to comment, or share it with a friend! I need to promote the book—this is my _livelihood_ we're talking about, here.

**To my reviewers:**

17steps: Wow, _thank you_! Thank you very much for that lovely, lovely review! Thanks also for the honor of making me and this fic the first author and story you've favorited!

Brazeau: Thanks a million!

Pearlmaidenredskyla: THANK YOU! ^^ Poor Kathleen, she just wanted to comfort Holmes with that hug. =) Can you imagine Holmes's and Watson's reactions to I-MAX or 3D? Whoa. And hey, you should know by now that I _love_ rambling reviews! They make my day!

**==Chapter VI==**

**This Might not be so Easy**

"_This isn't going to work."_

"_Why didn't you say so before?"_

"_I __**did**__ say so before."_

—Han Solo and Luke Skywalker, _Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope_

_**(Watson)**_

Within the book-blanketed walls of the library, I could still hear Holmes picking his way through Kathleen's song on the piano. Shaking my head fondly, I turned my attention to the wealth of reading before me, a specific author in mind. I stopped at a shelf entirely filled with the works of my hostess's pen (or computer, more likely).

The first title of a long series caught my eye almost immediately, and I pulled the book out. _Independent Investigator, Case File 1: Under an Afghan Sky_. The front cover bore a photo of a _very_ young Kathleen Duran—Kathleen _Stewart_, she would have been then—standing against a desert sunset. I flipped the book open to the prologue and began to read.

_It was bright and loud, and I had never been so scared or sickened in my life. Incredible that, in just a few seconds, a hijacked plane could turn the world upside-down. This was __**my**__ generation's "day that will live in infamy." I was there to see it happen—I was there to be a __**part**__ of it._

_None of us could believe our eyes when that second kamikaze rammed into the Twin Towers._

_Then I heard someone shriek, "Oh my God, it's __**falling**__!" One of the huge skyscrapers was beginning to fall in on itself._

_For one moment, I stood frozen in place, the world shattering around me._

_Then I sprang into action. Three years ago, I had made a promise that was just as binding as any oath ever sworn by a policeman, a doctor, or a soldier. I vowed to uphold justice and defend the innocent._

_September 11__th__, 2001 saw that vow fulfilled under utterly hellish circumstances…_

* * *

_**(Kathleen)**_

I was glad finally to discard my robe—said article of clothing was of the thick, plush, ultra-comfy variety, and utterly marvelous for winter months but a tad too hot when worn long into a typical spring morning. I had only worn it for as long as I had out of respect for Victorian decorum. I dress modestly and hold to an old-fashioned sense of propriety, but I was also used to greeting the police while still in my pajamas. I'd long ago reached a point where I wasn't bothered by it.

I smirked a little as I flung a set of clothes onto my bed. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were going to have to reach a point where they weren't bothered by modern standards, and quickly. Warm weather was coming up, and with it, shorts. I was definitely not going to sweat in jeans in ninety-degree weather just to prevent their blushing.

Good grief, that was a positively _wicked_ thought.

Half an hour and one relaxing shower later, I was dressed and wandering the house while brushing my long, slightly-snarled hair. I came to stop at the doorway to the living room to watch Sherlock steadily perform the second chorus of "Going Home." Dr. Watson poked his head out of the library and flashed me a smile, which I returned.

As the final note sounded, I clapped quietly around the brush in my hand. "Bravo, Sherlock," I grinned. "Encore."

The Doctor ambled over and joined me in the doorway. "Good show, old boy."

Sherlock stood and bowed with a flourish. "Thank you all." Straightening, he gave me an amused look as he said, "It _is_ common for people these days to call each other by their Christian names, is it not, Kathleen? You've called me by mine several times today already."

I colored. "Uhh, y-yes, yes, it is… I'm sorry!"

"If it is common courtesy in this age, think nothing of it," he assured me, waving a dismissive hand.

I resisted the urge to squirm, glancing instead at the Doctor, who smiled again. "You may call me 'John,' if you like."

I gave him a grateful look, instantly relaxing. Dr. Watson—John—reminded me sharply of David in that moment, and I think I must have started, for the next moment, he was frowning.

"Is something the matter?"

I was acutely aware, via my peripheral vision, of Sherlock Holmes sitting in one of the armchairs and watching us. I had the feeling that I was starting to pay for all those years I'd made people uncomfortable merely by looking at them. All this takes time to tell, but I'd thought this and answered John in two seconds. "Nothing," I said truthfully. Nothing was _wrong_—I had just been struck with a sudden flash of memory.

Seemingly satisfied with that, Sherlock pulled out a pipe and then paused, glancing up at me. "Do you mind?"

I winced. "Weeell… look, I know you two are avid smokers—" I began carefully.

"But you do not appreciate the smoke?" Sherlock finished calmly.

The Doctor entered the room, hands in the pockets of David's too-large robe. I made a mental note to take them into town first thing tomorrow for clothes shopping. "It's not just that," I said seriously, taking a seat on one of the couches. "One: smoking is medically proven to be dangerous. It causes lung cancer and knocks about thirteen years off your natural lifespan." John's face went slack with shock; Sherlock's expression was inscrutable. "Two: David was allergic to secondhand smoke, and that gene passed down to at least Cameron. He's the one in the family known to have allergies, so he was tested for it. None of the other kids have any readily apparent major allergies, but that doesn't mean that they won't have a bad reaction to smoke."

"I see," said Sherlock.

John merely frowned thoughtfully.

I shook my head. "Personally, I'd love to see the two of you quit smoking. Buuut if you don't want to… well, I understand that. I only ask that if you _must_ smoke, you do it _out of doors_ and away from the kids."

John nodded solemnly. "I think that's reasonable, eh, Holmes?"

"Quite." Sherlock made no move to rise from his seat.

I cocked an eyebrow. "Starting _now_, Sherlock," I said dryly.

He threw me an irritated look but acquiesced, stalking out the room and heading for the front door. Amused, John and I watched him go.

"Can you provide me with more information on the effects of tobacco?" John asked. "Even in our time, smoking is coming under fire, and I would be much obliged to get superior medical information on the whole thing."

I glanced aside at him. "Certainly, Doctor. Maybe you ought to get dressed, though, while I find the book." I grinned as he colored.

"Of course." He glanced down ruefully at his current clothes. "I suppose it's a bit late in the day to look like this, eh?"

"Quite so."

He pinned me with The Look, to which I responded with an innocent expression. "Is that phrase even _used_ anymore?"

I grinned at his astuteness. "Nope. Your Victorianisms are just rubbing off on me, that's all." With that parting shot, I glided away, determined to finish brushing my stubborn hair before it died.

* * *

_**(Watson)**_

I spent several minutes rummaging through the odd clothes I had been given. Eventually, I settled for a pair of well-worn but sturdy trousers whose hems I had to cuff, an over-long grey shirt that I later learned was called a "T-shirt," and a long-sleeved green plaid shirt that Kathleen was quick to assure me afterwards was fine to leave unbuttoned. I looked completely outlandish, but the clothes _were_ comfortable.

My next task was to pull Holmes back indoors and get him into a fresh change of clothing, himself. For him to wear the same set of clothes for days on end was nothing unusual (in his black bouts of depression, he would not even stir from his armchair, let alone change), but I felt it only proper to change since we were currently guests—even if our residence would be indeterminately long.

After a good ten minutes of alternately wheedling and arguing, I managed to get him into the room made up for him (which he had not yet so much as _visited_). "My dear Watson," said he, "if you think for one moment that I shall don such a ridiculous outfit as you yourself have done—"

Throughout the brief tirade, I had been rifling through the clothes Kathleen had provided, and stopped him short by triumphantly holding up a cream-coloured sweater and a pair of dark brown trousers. His dignity could hardly refuse _that_.

And it did not. Once the change had been affected, I tilted my head slightly, regarding him. The length of the clothes was perfect, though rather roomy as David Duran had possessed a sturdier build than Holmes did, but that was not what struck me. The clothes seemed almost to _belong_ on Sherlock Holmes.

He regarded me quizzically. "What is it?"

I shook my head. "Nothing, old chap. The clothes suit you, that's all."

He snorted. "_That_, Watson, was a terrible pun most unworthy of you." I chuckled, and he shook his head. "And now, I am rather faced with a dilemma."

I knew exactly it what it was, and sighed. "My dear fellow, _how_ can you _possibly_ be bored _now_, of all times? We are in the _21__st__ century_, for heaven's sake!"

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently, "but without new wonders upon which to fixate, the initial novelty quickly wears off."

I sighed again—as impossible now as he had been twenty years ago. "Holmes, you've been fascinated with this new age up until just now, by which I can only conclude that your night without sleep has caught up with you and made you lethargic and irritable."

He shot me a peevish glare, confirming my conclusions. "Oh, you scintillate this morning, Watson."

"And you do _not_," I retorted, returning his glare sternly. "Go to bed, Holmes. I'll wake you when luncheon is ready."

He turned half away. "I shall do nothing of the kind."

I pursed my lips in irritation—of all the man's vices, it might be his sleeping habits (or lack thereof) that would kill him in the end. Criminals and cocaine need not apply.

A different approach was called for. I softened my expression and my voice and said, "Please, Holmes? For my sake?"

He glanced uneasily at me out of the corner of his eye, and I knew I had won.

"My dear fellow? Please."

He exhaled forcefully. "Very well, Doctor." He cast himself upon the bed, closed his eyes, stretched his long legs, and folded his arms beneath his head. He opened one eye to look at me, seeking my approval.

I shook my head and smiled. "Good morning, Holmes," I said, and shut the door behind me.

Out in the foyer, I bumped into Kathleen, who quickly recovered and flashed me an apologetic smile. "You got him to change and sleep?" she whispered.

I raised my eyebrows in amusement. "All right, go ahead and explain your deductions," I smiled indulgently, folding my arms and leaning against the wall. "If you're anything like your _hero_, I know that you want to."

She blushed. "It's, um, it's very simple, actually. You go outside, spend several minutes in what I suppose to be conversation, end it by practically _dragging_ him into the house, and bring him to his bedroom. You obviously want him to change and sleep, since he's done neither and you're both his friend and physician. After several minutes, you emerge in evident content, sans Sherlock Holmes. The obvious explanation is that you succeeded in both your goals."

"I could have merely wanted him to get some sleep and not bothered with the clothes," I pointed out.

"You _could_," she nodded, "if it hadn't been that you were speaking with him for roughly ten minutes outside and another five in his room. I doubt that it takes so much effort to get even Sherlock Holmes to sleep—he'd probably cut you short before time progressed that far."

I shrugged my shoulders. "I'm afraid you have me there, Kathleen."

She grinned impishly. "Better get used to it."

I groaned good-naturedly, eliciting a silent laugh from my hostess.

"So, do you wanna see those case files now?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Right-o. This way, _por favor_?" As I followed her, I noticed her grimace. "Shoot, I used Spanish again, didn't I?"

"I believe you did."

She screwed up her face and kicked at the floor. "Ahhh, I'm sorry, D—John. I grew up speaking both English and Spanish—my mother is Spanish Jewish from Venezuela."

Curious, I said, "Really? You don't look Latin."

She shook her head. "No, I don't, but I _have_ been told that I look European Jew."

I nodded. "Is it _your_ family, then, that lives in Israel?"

"Hmm? Oh, last night. Uh, no, actually that's _David's_ family, and even then, it's just his sister. Debbie went to Israel on a missionary trip one summer and ended up marrying an Israeli. David and Deb's parents died in a car accident when he was little, so they were taken in by their grandparents."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

She shrugged slightly. "If David were here, he'd say that was a long time ago and that he doesn't regret being raised by his grandparents." One corner of her mouth pulled back. "I actually helped him solve a mystery about his father the same Christmas season we got married. You can read about it in my autobiographical series… it's book four, _A Christmas to Remember_."

"What a floridly romantic title," I quipped lightly.

She laughed. "Ain't it the truth?"

* * *

_**(Kathleen)**_

Once the Doctor was settled with several box-loads of good old-fashioned cases-in-print, I headed back to my room to make a call to a friend in the UK. On the way, though, I couldn't help stopping at the door to Sherlock's room and peeking in. He was out.

He looked so utterly tranquil in his sleep, at peace with himself and the world. And... I rather thought he looked younger, that I was catching a glimpse of perhaps his thirties.

There was something almost a little sacred about a longtime fan-girl stealing a glimpse of the Great Detective asleep, and at the same time, there was something very _normal_ about it. No, _normal_ was not the right word, but very… very _real_. Between this and his emotional slip earlier, he was more human in my eyes than he had ever been before. Sherlock Holmes ceased to be an idolized legend and became a real _person_ to me—a fallible, mortal man, with his strengths and flaws just like any other man.

I loved him all the more for it.

"Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes," I whispered, withdrawing. I knew that the image of him sleeping there would brand itself into my memory for a long time to come. And I was just fine with that.

* * *

A sigh resonated on the other side of the phone. "You're absolutely sure?"

"I'd bet my life on it."

"Sorry, wrong answer. You're a little too careless with your own life."

I rolled my eyes. "Fine, I'd bet my oldest boy's life on it. Better?"

"Mm. Now _that_ gives me a little more certainty."

"So you'll send me the papers?"

"You'll have them by this time tomorrow."

Relieved, I let out an explosive breath. "Thanks, Mark. I mean, really."

"Don't worry, I'll think of some way for you to pay me back."

"I'm sure," I said dryly.

"Maybe a case here in London that the Yard can't solve—you could bring Holmes and Watson with you."

"That thought _had_ occurred to me, yeah."

"Right. I'll talk to you later, Kathleen."

"Yes, sir. Goodbye. …And thank you so much."

The phone on the other end clicked off, and I snapped my own cell shut. Somehow, knowing that those identification papers were on their way made this whole wonderful-but-all-too-day-dreamish thing seem so much more _real_. This was really _happening_.

I wondered if it would last.

I wished it would.

* * *

_**(Watson)**_

Holmes might have slept all day had I let him, but I had said I would wake him for luncheon, so I did. He looked better for his nap, though I dared not say _that_ aloud. The children were home by then, and all was noisy but well in the Duran household. After a smallish luncheon (of which Holmes partook), the children changed out of their Sunday best and into play clothes, and we all headed outside for a grand tour of the "Duran Homestead."

As it turned out, the family had chickens, and three Arabian horses. They had also owned a border collie that had died two years earlier and had never been replaced.

The property was five-and-thirty acres in all, and included a large vegetable garden south of the house on the side of the driveway and a brook merely several yards behind the house but almost hidden from view by the trees. One needed to walk only fifty yards from the house, the garden, or the horse pasture to enter very wild woodland. The place was alive with the cheer and beauty of spring, and though I had never heard of any fairies gracing the New World with their presence, it was not difficult to imagine that such creatures could exist here, to be seen only out of the corner of the eye.

We tramped through the place all afternoon, and all too soon, the children had to return to the house to prepare to return to church that evening. "It's a kids' Bible study," Christy explained. "They have different age groups like Sunday School, and our church does their kids' program on Sunday evenings from late September to mid-May."

"And what of the adults?" I asked.

"Wednesday night prayer meeting," she answered promptly. "And Tuesday morning men's Bible study, and Thursday morning women's Bible study."

"I don't often go, on Wednesday or Thursday," Kathleen admitted. "More often than not, I'm working." She shoved her hands into her pockets and shrugged.

"What _is_ your church?" said I. "I have a feeling it's not the Church of England."

Kathleen laughed. "And you would be correct in that feeling. Our church is in technicality non-denominational, in practicality pretty much Baptist."

"Ah."

Holmes frowned. "Why non-denominational?"

Kathleen's expression sobered. "If a church is _part_ of a denomination, it has to answer to some sort of _hierarchy_ for that denomination. And sometimes, the people in charge in that hierarchy uphold ideas that _aren't_ very Biblical. But if you're _not_ in a denomination, you don't have to answer to those people. Hence the fact that while Grace Baptist Church is independent, it still upholds basic Baptist doctrine."

She smiled slyly. "It's like being a private consulting detective, actually. You uphold the same basic laws Scotland Yard does, but you're not strictly answerable to them when they're in the wrong."

Holmes shot her a sharp, assessing look. "Capital analogy," he said, without sarcasm.

"Thank you." Kathleen beamed briefly, and I could not suppress a small smile. Hero worship, indeed.

* * *

Clarice Evans returned once more to transport the children to church, sans Christy, who was too old to participate. Once her siblings were gone, the girl simply went upstairs to her room to get on her computer, saying that she had a chapter of her book to finish as well as a chapter of her "fanfic," and her "RPs" to check on. That is, she told her mother that. Holmes and I, of course, did not understand a word beyond "book."

Kathleen just gave us a smile that clearly said that the terminology would be explained in time.

The once-more quiet house found us settled in the living room, Kathleen spreading herself out on one of the sofas. It was then that I realized just how slender and athletic she really was, and I had half a mind to ask her if women in this time participated in sports and if so, if she herself did, when she spoke up. Her eyes were closed as one leg dangled off the sofa, and I was reminded very sharply of Holmes back at Baker Street, not so long ago.

Without opening her eyes, she announced, "I called a friend in London—he says those papers of yours will be in tomorrow."

"Oh." I glanced at Holmes before continuing. "That's… good news, I suppose."

"It is," she agreed, settling further into the sofa.

"You seem to think we shall be here for a very long time," Holmes remarked.

She opened her eyes at that, and looked directly at him, sitting placidly in an armchair. "I'm taking every precaution, Sherlock. It's entirely possible. We don't know _how_ you got here, we don't know _why_, and we definitely don't know for _how long_. I think we should approach this situation as being permanent."

It was a possibility my mind had already considered, but it chilled me in my heart of hearts. I had no _close_ friends back home, but there were still Mycroft and Lestrade and Gregson and Hopkins, and my heart was still tied to the London I had lived in and loved for more than two decades. I still had roots there.

Holmes had steepled his fingers and was studying our hostess. "I agree that we should take precautions, of course. Do _you_ have any theories as to how or why Watson and I _are_ here?"

Kathleen closed her eyes again. "In stories, there are two main types of time-travel. There's temporary, in which the time-traveler either brings knowledge from his time to make the other time better, or he takes knowledge from the other time back to his time to make home better. I would venture to say that the latter is the more common of the two, though, mind you, I haven't studied this stuff since before I starting having kids—ergo, a long time ago. Then there's permanent, in which the time-traveler fulfills the remainder of his destiny in the other time."

She hesitated, then continued. "Frankly—and I don't mean to be rude—the fact that you two are, well, getting along in years rather seems to lend credence to the permanence theory."

I did not speak, and Holmes looked very much lost in thought. Silence dominated the room for a good two minutes.

At last, Holmes spoke, though quietly. "You believe this to be supernatural."

"Until proven otherwise, yes."

"To the purpose of?"

Kathleen folded her arms. "That's God's business, not mine."

I winced at the rather curt rejoinder.

"That was a deplorable evasion."

"Sherlock, _seriously_—how am I supposed to know?" She huffed and folded her arms behind her head, then, as if an idea had occurred to her, flung herself abruptly off the sofa and grabbed a device that resembled a cell phone from a nearby shelf. She pulled a stylus out of the device and started rapidly tapping the glowing screen. "First thing tomorrow," she said almost absently, not looking up, her mind obviously on a new train of thought, "we're going clothes shopping for the two of you. When we get home, we'll have lunch, and _then_—" she looked up, and her dark eyes sparkled—"I'm going to put you boys through a one-week-long 21st century boot camp." She grinned roguishly.

Holmes and I traded blank glances. "Boot camp?" my friend echoed.

Kathleen snickered briefly before catching herself. She had the grace to say "sorry," but the amused glint in her eyes said otherwise. "There you go—that's the kind of thing you have to learn about. Boot camp… ah, in the vernacular, it means intensive training like you'd get in the army.

"In this case, five and half days of intensive training, in which you'll learn how to fully use a computer and operate other common devices, drive a car—" Holmes opened his mouth to protest, and Kathleen raised a hand—"a practical thing to know, and non-negotiable, Mr. Holmes." She cocked an eyebrow, her expression and posture daring him to try her. He pressed his lips together in irritation and briefly waved a hand for her to continue. She nodded. "Okay… 20th century history, current events, pop culture, modern British law and culture, modern American and British English, advances in science and medicine…"

I swallowed hard. "And, erm, you expect us to learn all of this in five and a half _days_?"

"At least have a working knowledge of all this, yes," she nodded in a no-nonsense fashion. "And church next Sunday will be your test—we'll see if you two can managed to act like modern people. So…" She leaned in, her expression both excited and challenging. "Think you're up to this?"

Holmes leaned forward, determined—of course, no one challenged _him_ and won. "Absolutely."

Mere mortal that I am and unable to match the intensity of the two geniuses in the room, I merely shook my head. "If I drop dead of exhaustion when we're through, I'll come back to haunt you."

Kathleen laughed merrily. "You're on!" She pressed the back of her hand over her mouth to contain her mirth. "Say… How'd you guys like to watch a _modern-day_ dramatisation of your adventures?"

"Modern-day?" Holmes and I echoed almost simultaneously.

I blinked. "I am curious as to what entertainment these days is like, anyway…"

"I'm rather afraid," Holmes frowned, "that they shall have ruined our story completely."

Kathleen cocked her head. "I… don't think they did. I've always enjoyed it, and I daresay you might, too. It's a good show."

I nodded slowly. "I'd like to see it."

Holmes drummed his fingers against each other briefly and sighed. "Oh, very well."

Grinning, Kathleen nodded and retrieved the proper case. And halted. "Oh. Umm… I _should_ w—_say_, beforehand, that there are _some_… ehhh… _inappropriate_ things. Profanity, of course, and some brief, uh, references to, um, homosexuality. Very brief," she added hastily, seeing the thunderstruck look on Holmes's face.

But he shook his head and said, "Now I'm curious. Go ahead, start it up."

Kathleen nodded again and started the show.

Watching it was… intriguing, to say the least. The television and the fact of the film itself were marvels in their own right. And though the fictitious Sherlock and John differed from Holmes and myself, they remained recognizably _us_. And yes, there were things that I did not appreciate. But I enjoyed it on the whole, and though Holmes maintained a stern expression throughout, I occasionally caught a glimmer of interest and even pleasure in his grey eyes.

As the end credits rolled, Kathleen turned to us with an expectant look. "Well?"

We were alternately discussing and arguing the show until the children returned. Then, after the younger ones went to bed, Christy and Jeremy begged their mother to let them watch the second episode of the drama. It turned out that we watched not only the second but also the _third_ episode, by which time it was almost midnight. Christy and Jeremy were promptly shooed to bed afterward, leaving us adults to continue our discussion of _Sherlock_—until Kathleen also shooed _Holmes and myself_ to bed.

To my amusement, Holmes was a bit too sleepy to debate the issue, merely shooting her a glare that he was honor-bound to give. I do not think she minded it at all.

**

* * *

Author's Note:**

The sleeping scene was my fave. Of course, the last scene was fun, too.

_**Please review!**_


	7. So Much to Learn

**Author's Note:**

So sorry about the delay! I had to write this chapter several times over (taking out large chunks that not even my beta ever saw), until at last I had something I was satisfied with, and even _after_ that, I needed to fix some OOC moments! *sighs* (Btw, did you know that book-signing events began with the Marshall Fields department store in Chicago in 1914? I didn't until just the other day. ^^)

Yes, we're still going slowly, but at least you see _two_ days in this chapter, not just one. We're slowly but surely picking up momentum! Also, if you'll forgive a shameless plug, I have two more SH fics up now: A _Study in Stardom_, which is a real-life/Canon AU starring not only Holmes & Watson but also Jeremy Brett, David Burke, and eventually Edward Hardwicke; and "The Doctor and the Storyteller," in which Watson tends to a young soldier during WWI, a soldier who will go to become one of the most famous and beloved authors of all time (take a guess at whom!). Please check them out and let me know what you think!

One more note. My mom recently told me about a televised Sherlock Holmes play she used to really enjoy as a teenager, so I tried to find it on YouTube. Guess what? THE WHOLE THING WAS THERE. So I watched the whole thing and fell in love with it! It's a 1981 production, starring Frank Langella as Sherlock Holmes—and while Langella doesn't look _pure_ _Holmes_ as Jeremy Brett does, he still does a wonderful job! I think he's very true to the character! It's rather a lighthearted presentation, and a combination-adaptation of SCAN and FINA, but it's a _lot_ of fun. There's a plot twist at the end that some hard-core Sherlockians might not approve of (I do, and I won't give it away, so you'll have to watch it to find out for yourself), but I should think that the rest of the play should make up for it! (Their version of the Holmes/Moriarty-at-Baker-Street confrontation is one of the best parts—Holmes is pure win in that scene, and the end is absolutely priceless!) Link to my playlist (remove the spaces): http : / / www . youtube . com / user / RingSaberWardrobe#grid / user / 8890E3F544C94130. (If that doesn't work, just go to my YouTube channel via my profile and open the playlist from there.) Enjoy!

**To my reviewers:**

The Pearl Maiden: *jaw drops* YOU CHANGED YOUR NAME! xD …Thank you, m'dear! Um, yes, I _will_ reference to the RDJ film… I have some ideas regarding that. Watson would probably enjoy Jude Law's performance, based on what I've read. xD

Brazeau: Thanks! It can be a challenge, sometimes, figuring out how exactly they'd react to different things. And they're definitely fortunate to have fallen in with the Duran family, that's for sure—although, one really could say it's the other way around… ^^

**==Chapter VII==**

**So Much to Learn**

_I can see there's so much to learn_

_It's all so close, and yet so far_

—"I Wanna Know," Phil Collins, _Tarzan_

_**(Watson)**_

Our first foray into a 21st century town was tempered by the fact that Holmes and I already had some idea of what to expect, thanks to _Sherlock_. I believe that Kathleen spent an exorbitant amount of money on outfitting us both with wardrobes, but she never did let us see the bill. Even Holmes could only estimate the cost, for she removed some of the price tags before we took possession of our new things back home. At least, our hostess displayed both practicality and good taste as she helped us select our clothes, and she respected our desire to remain conservative in our new wardrobes.

Holmes's purchases were replete with jackets and slacks and ties that Kathleen informed us were considered semiformal wear these days. He did, however, concede to two pairs of blue jeans on account of their durability (he really only conceded to _one_ pair, but Kathleen slipped another into the shopping cart). I myself picked out a few semiformal things, as well as some more casual sweaters and polo shirts and two pairs of blue jeans.

Holmes also bought (well, _bought_ via Kathleen) a long grey trench coat similar to the one Benedict Cumberbatch wore in _Sherlock_. The coat certainly suited him well. For the purpose of a cool-weather coat, I decided upon a beige jacket rather military in style. Holmes and Kathleen were unsurprised, and Kathleen's appreciative look as I tried it on was rather flattering.

Our attentions were briefly arrested by T-shirts bearing text, which Holmes swiftly declined as being below his dignity. Amused, I pointed out one shirt that read _WARNING: Dangerous Chemicals Inside_ as being utterly perfect for him. I do not believe he was as amused as I, and we left the store without one single T-shirt having made it into our bags.

Our "intensive training" began promptly after luncheon, starting with a long history lesson on the 20th century. Learning that a great war—_the_ Great War—would begin only ten years from the year Holmes and I had left chilled me, and in learning the particulars, I found it was no wonder that everyone thought the world would end. I believe I should have, had I lived through it.

Would I even ever _see_ that war, or would I be forced to "skip over" one hundred twenty-one years of history?

I could not tell which possibility frightened me more.

* * *

_**(Holmes)**_

Around three that afternoon, our identification papers arrived. Kathleen glanced over them briefly with a rather grim look before handing them to us. After a few moments of scanning the documents myself, I believe I understood her reaction.

"This is preposterous!" I ejaculated. "How utterly invasive!"

Watson's brow furrowed as he read over his own papers. "They _do_ want to know a little more than perhaps they should…"

"Watson, no one but _close friends _and_ family_ should know the answers to _all_ these questions! Not even you and I know this much about each other!"

"I know, it's bad," Kathleen interjected, "but you don't have a choice, Sherlock. I'm sorry." I glanced at her, and read genuine sympathy and regret in her expression. She was no happier about this than I, and she was also right.

I shook my head and ran a hand lightly through my hair, grudgingly accepting the inevitable. "I suppose that, for our dates of birth, we should simply count backwards from our current ages."

"That's what I would do, yes," Kathleen nodded.

With a sigh, I picked up my pen and began to fill out the blanks.

* * *

Over dinner, the children began to discuss what film they wished to watch that evening. "Y'know, what we _ought_ to do is Narnia," Ruth suggested, turning to her mother. Ruth was nearing fourteen, though her small, slight figure might lead a casual observer to mistake her for a good two years younger. "Mr. Holmes and the Doctor would probably enjoy it, and we're overdue to watch it, anyway."

"Narnia?" Watson echoed.

"_The Chronicles of Narnia_," Christy clarified. "It's fantasy, but it's _Christian_ fantasy. There's one character, Aslan, who's really Christ—just in a different world."

"Fantasy," I repeated unenthusiastically.

"Actually, I think you would like it, Sherlock," Kathleen interjected. "They're not mysteries or horror tales, but they _are_ excellent tales of Good versus Evil."

"I'm game," Watson chirped, delighted at the prospect of a new story to enjoy—honestly, the _cheerfulness_ of that man sometimes!

"I suppose I could at least give it a go," I muttered.

"You're gonna love it, Mr. Holmes!" Edward gushed. "There're—"

"Edward!" Kirk scolded. "Take a lock!"

The little laddie gave me a sheepish grin not unlike the smiles of my Irregulars when they had been caught snatching biscuits from the sitting room table. I smiled back at him and shrugged, just before a wave of nostalgia colored with homesickness washed over me.

I did not appreciate the fact that Kathleen was watching me and could clearly read me as easily as I could read her. A great mind coupled with the soul of a woman is a dangerous thing, indeed.

* * *

_**(Watson)**_

My heart was in my throat as the sordid scene unfolded before my captivated gaze: the Great Lion walking to his death at the hands of the White Witch. For a moment only, I glanced at Holmes, who looked to be as riveted as I, his grey eyes intense. We watched the nightmarish creatures on the screen rejoice in their triumph, then listened to the steady rhythm of a truly devilish ritual.

Then the knife fell, and I was struck with a sudden flash of memory, seeing the horrified grief in little Lucy's eyes. A part of me was back at Reichenbach once more, shouting desperately for the only friend I had in the world, all the while knowing in my heart that I was calling for a dead man. That relived memory only intensified as Susan and Lucy mourned their loss, and I felt afresh a deep heartache I thought buried ten years ago.

Despite Aslan's death, Peter, Edmund, and their army struggled on, retaliating in a fierce battle. Kathleen's words from the other day sounded in my head: _fighting the Long Defeat_.

But then the sun rose on the Stone Table, and oh, joy, joy, _joy!_ Death had miraculously "worked backwards," and Aslan was alive _("My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected")_ once more!

The battle, however, was far from over, and I feared still for the boys' lives before the end. But Aslan came bounding in, vanquishing his foe as God will someday vanquish the Devil, and Edmund was healed. Even the children's return to England could not dampen my spirits now, for I already knew that they would return to Narnia someday, as King Arthur was said to someday return to England.

I could not wait to watch the next story.

As the children prepared for bed, Holmes and I found ourselves alone in the living room. "Well," I smiled.

My friend cast his scrutinising gaze over me. "My dear fellow, are you quite all right? There were some moments during that film that I noticed you to be rather pale."

Aslan's resurrection had brought with it the memory of Holmes's return to London, and chased away the nightmare of those dreadful Falls as surely as light chases away the darkness. "Of course, old man," I smiled rather solemnly. "I was caught up in the story, is all. And, well, it put me in mind of Reichenbach—Aslan's sacrifice."

A brief flash in his grey eyes told me that he had relived some of his own ghosts as well. Perhaps such is the mark of a good story, possessing the poignancy to trigger such reactions from its audience.

"But his return—oh, that more than made up for it, Holmes! It was as if I was back in my consulting room, pulling myself back together after your theatrics!" I spoke that last in fond laughter, and he smiled ruefully.

"Either Aslan or the producers _share_ my love of theatrics, what with his appearance before a rising sun," he said, half-scoffing, half-sheepish.

"Indeed," I grinned. "Ah, that film did my heart good, Holmes! It was an excellent tale, quite touching."

"Rather simple, I should think…" He looked up at me from his musing and gave me his odd half-smile. "And it had heart to it… without romance."

I raised my eyebrows. "A great compliment, to be sure, coming from _you_, Holmes."

He shrugged. "It was a mere fact, Watson, no more."

"Mm-hmm."

"Watson."

I looked at him innocently. "What?"

* * *

_**(Kathleen)**_

Late that evening brought with it the question I'd been waiting to hear ever since Sherlock's long surf on the Web. "Kathleen," he said without preamble, "how is it that Watson's stories are treated as fiction, and he and I ourselves regarded as fictional characters and not historical figures?"

John did a double-take. I merely flopped onto my couch with an explosive sigh. "I was wondering when you were gonna ask," I muttered, and straightened slightly. "John? It's quite a story—you think you might want to record it?"

He gave me a dry look as he took a seat by his friend. "I'm guessing it's already recorded."

"Touché, but still." He shrugged and pulled a small notebook and pencil out of his sweater—and Sherlock Holmes nearly huffed with impatience. I grinned and folded my arms behind my head. "Well, let me start by telling you how _I_ found out.

"I was twenty at the time. A friend of mine was getting ready to have a rummage sa—never mind that, it's not important." Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "_Really_, Sherlock, it's not. Anyway, I was helping my friend dig through her attic—it was this big, beautiful, pre-Civil War house… ohhh, I just adored it. And her attic was just absolutely overflowing with all kinds of antiques and things all the way back from colonial times. She said before we started that anything I found that I liked, I could put into a big box and she'd sell it to me for fifty dollars—she was moving west and she just wanted to get rid of stuff."

I smiled like the cat who swallowed the canary. "Lucky for me that she was a really sweet friend and didn't care for detective stories… 'cause I found a Christmas 1887 print of _A Study in Scarlet_."

John's hazel eyes went round. "Good heavens, that would be over a hundred years old!"

I nodded eagerly. "I know, I know! I just… _froze_, and then, well…" I looked away. "I'll admit it—I screamed. I was so excited, I screamed."

I heard John chuckle. "Somehow, I can imagine that."

I blushed. "Yes, ahem, well, anyway… Most original copies of _Study_ are worth a few million dollars now—" John gasped and paled; Sherlock sucked in his breath sharply—"but, umm, this one was probably worth even more. You see, Doctor, it was signed _John Watson, M.D_."

John's gaze went distant as he obviously tried to recall such an autograph. "I think… yes, I _did_ once sign an original '87 _Beeton's Christmas Annual_. It was a young American woman who came to Holmes in '95 with a small case—do you remember that, Holmes?"

"Yes, indeed, it was a very trifling problem," Sherlock said languidly. "She needn't have seen me about it—I had it cleared up in five minutes."

I laughed. "I've had cases like that. They pay for speed, I guess."

"And _we_ are paid for wasting five minutes of our lives."

I rolled my eyes. "A capital crime, to be sure," I muttered loud enough for them to hear.

John bit back an amused grin. "At any rate, the girl was a fan of my writings, and she asked me to autograph her copy. How could I refuse her? That must be the very same copy you have, Kathleen… oh, I should dearly like to see it!"

I grinned. "It's in the den in a plastic bag to prevent damage—all those originals are nearly a hundred fifty now, you know."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows briefly in a "good Lord" expression; John whistled softly. "Incredible," he breathed.

Sherlock looked me in the eye. "So finding that signature caused you to believe that we _could_ have been real, after all."

I nodded. "Right. Fortunately, not long afterwards, I was hired by a government agent in London for a case with Scotland Yard, and, of course, I accepted in a heartbeat. At that point in time, I hadn't even ever been out of the US before, so I definitely jumped at the chance to see London. Once the case was wrapped up, I went to my employer and, well, discussed my finding with him. He was extremely intelligent and well-connected, and I knew that if anyone could help me, it would be he. Instead of answering me directly, though, he took me out to this vault where important old documents are preserved. By this time, I was practically _dying_ of suspense, but then he carefully laid out these old papers on the table…"

I was sure my expression was one of enrapture. Sherlock's own face was pensive, and John's quietly understanding. "Our case files," he murmured. "You saw our case files."

I nodded slowly. "Mark even let me _handle_ them—with gloves on, of course. 'The Bruce-Partington Plans,' 'The Devil's Foot,' 'The Illustrious Client,' 'The Three Garridebs'… those were the ones I got to see. Ohhh, I was just in _heaven_." John chuckled, and I grinned. "It was fantastic. So after that, Mark—the man who hired me—sat me down and explained the thing to me. The reason he knows is that he's a direct descendant of one of your clients from way back—Mrs. Helen Armitage."

"Miss Stoner!" Watson breathed.

"That's the one. Mark Armitage is her great-great-grandson. 'The Speckled Band,' I think, tends to be one of your more popular adventures, and it was no less popular among the Armitage family. Helen related the story to her son, who passed it down to his, and the story passed down to Mark. When Mark entered governmental service, he did some digging of his own, and turned up some interesting facts."

Sherlock was leaning back in his seat, his fingers steepled and his eyes closed—the same way he would listen to the facts of a case. I smiled fleetingly at that and continued, my tone now more serious. "Late April 1904 editions of several London newspapers carried the story of the disappearance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. The last anyone had seen of Mr. Holmes was by Harold Stackhurst at 4 p.m. on Friday the 15th. The last anyone had seen of Dr. Watson was at 6 p.m. of that same day when he got off the train in the Sussex Downs."

"So _that's_ why you think this is permanent," John interjected solemnly.

I shook my head. "Not really, but that's a lot more than I want to get into right now. It _does_ lend more credence to the idea, though. Anyway, the police eventually gave it up as a lost cause—some people even believed it to be another disappearing stunt like Reichenbach. _The Strand_ eventually pressed Sir Arthur—Doyle—for more Sherlock Holmes stories, and Sir Arthur asked Mycroft for permission. Mycroft granted it and let Sir Arthur have access to the case files. Mycroft took possession of all your things, both of you, and had them stored away in case you ever returned. Mark even _saw_ the stuff once, said it was like stepping back in time. Mycroft allowed Sir Arthur to claim credit for writing the stories, and the two of them worked out this elaborate cover-up story in which the two of you became fictional."

John's expression was incredulous—Sherlock's darkened. "I have a supposition as to why."

I raised my eyebrows. "Congrats—that's more than Mark or I have ever been able to do. We're _still_ absolutely clueless."

"Mm," was his only reply.

I cast a quizzical glance at John, who shook his head fractionally—apparently, that was all I was going to get for now. I shrugged and spread my hands. "Well, so… that's the story. It's possible, though, that becoming fictional has made you even more famous than if the world knew you were real. The Sherlock Holmes stories are timeless classics. Schools and homeschool programs use short stories like 'The Speckled Band,' 'The Norwood Builder,' and 'The Redheaded League' in their literature curriculums. For decades, people have written their own stories about you and published them. Fan speculation has long since been a scholarship in its own right, with people working to ferret out more obscure details, like Dorothy Sayers reasoning that the university Sherlock attended was Cambridge."

I caught a brief twitch of Sherlock's lips and counted it a score for Dorothy Sayers. Cambridge, it was, then.

"And I have become the 'most portrayed movie character,' I believe," he added. "Eighty actors in over 220 films."

John whistled. "By Jove!"

I nodded again. "William Gillette, Basil Rathbone, Ronald Howard, Peter Cushing, Christopher Lee, Christopher Plummer, Frank Langella, Charlton Heston, Robert Downey, Jr., Vasily Livanov, Benedict Cumberbatch, just to name a few… and of course, the all-time best, Jeremy Brett."

John arched an eyebrow. "Oh?" I smiled secretively and rose from the couch to the DVD shelf, grabbing the Granada series case and handing it to John with a flourish. "Good heavens," he murmured.

"Spitting image, eh?"

"My word, _yes_! Do you think him faithful?"

I smiled widely. "_Nobody_ could be more faithful than dear Jeremy. I mean, he'd carry around this complete edition of the stories and make notes and point out where the script deviated from Canon… He even got up in arms over the producers' departures from Canon before Granada Television took over the production. And Jeremy was the type of actor that just gave—" At that point, I could have kicked myself. Hard. I could see a shadow over Sherlock's face out of the corner of my eye. But I'd gone _this_ far, and John deserved to know. "Jeremy was the type of actor that just gave his performances his all—I mean, heart and soul. Remind me to show you one of the episodes sometime—getting to know Sherlock now, I really think Jeremy had him nailed."

"Or was it the other way around?" Sherlock muttered morosely.

I sighed, _really_ wanting to kick myself now. "I heard _that_ one coming."

"I'm sure."

Frowning, John looked back and forth between us. "What are you talking about?"

"He _died_, Watson," Sherlock said flatly, rising to his feet. "He died soon after quitting the role, and he was already deteriorating well before the series ended." He stalked out of the room, and John and I watched him go.

"Kathleen?"

I closed my eyes. "It's a long story."

"It's not nine yet—we've plenty of time."

"Okay, okay…" I took a deep breath. "It really started with a rheumatic fever Jeremy had as a boy…"

* * *

_**(Watson)**_

Tuesday morning, driving lessons began. Holmes flatly refused to learn, and Kathleen wisely decided not to press the matter, whispering to me later that maybe I could convince him someday. I told her that I should try if ever I had a good chance, and she appeared satisfied with that.

So at a quarter to ten, I found myself behind the wheel. Needless to say, cars these days were much more complicated than their prototypes.

In merely backing up, I managed to knock over a trash bin, thankfully empty. I also jolted myself and Kathleen rather mercilessly as I learned to brake. Nevertheless, after practicing all morning, I had a good idea of what I was doing.

Holmes, meantime, spent the morning talking shop with Jeremy, who, as it turned out, took a keen interest in chemistry. While I was learning to handle the clutch properly, Holmes was in the basement, aiding Jeremy's chemical pursuits (the boy having somehow finished his school lesson by half-past nine). I was delighted that my friend had someone to keep him occupied, especially in his old hobby.

Following luncheon, Kathleen had something of a dilemma on her hands. She had scheduled out our lessons for the week and had scheduled nothing but driving lessons for Tuesday. She finally declared a break of an hour or so while she worked out what to teach us next. Holmes bowed deferentially and betook himself out to the porch to have a smoke.

I, on the other hand, soon found my attention arrested by the youngest member of the family. "Doctor," said Aubrey, "do you wanna play Legos with me?"

"Legos?" I echoed, studying the pert little thing. She had her father's blue eyes and sandy brown hair, but the face was undoubtedly her mother's.

Aubrey nodded sharply. "Uh-huh." I noticed Christy watching us, and I gave her a reassuring look. "C'mon, I'll show you." She took my hand and led me to the room I had already deduced to be a playroom. She pried the lid off a large plastic crate and pushed it over, spilling its colourful contents onto the floor.

I bent down and picked up one of the brick-like objects, examining it. "What heaven's name…"

"That's a Duplo brick," she informed me with the air of an expert. "Duplos are big Legos. You put them together to build stuff." She held up a large red heart made of the things, apparently interlocking celluloid bricks

"I see."

"Can you help me build a really big castle? Every time Mama and I try, we get int-er-upted."

I started. My little companion was gazing up at me with a hopeful expression. I most definitely did _not_ want to take the place of the child's mother in her architectural endeavours—no doubt Kathleen gave it her best every chance she got to be with her youngest—but how could I disappoint Aubrey?

I settled onto the floor, careful of my bad leg. "If you'll show me what to do."

The wide smile she gave me was worth it.

* * *

_**(Kathleen)**_

After a few minutes of playing around with my carefully-constructed lesson schedule (_thank you __**so**__ much, Mr. Holmes_), I gave up and headed for the front door. Sherlock was there on the porch, leaning against the railing and contentedly smoking his pipe. Smiling slightly, I quietly shut the door behind me. "Mind if I intrude on your solitude?" I said softly.

"I suppose, if you don't mind the tobacco," he replied, his pipe still clenched between his teeth.

I grinned. "I don't." I ambled over to the railing and leaned against it as well, at a respectful distance from the former detective. Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply and slowly let the breath out.

We stood like that for some time in silence, Sherlock still puffing at his pipe and I letting my mind wander. It returned firmly to earth, though, when he broke the silence by saying, "I _am_ sorry to have upset your plans so."

I sighed and shrugged. "You're not a car person—some people are like that. It's okay, no big deal."

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. "You're a very forgiving woman."

I laughed slightly. "I'm a mother and a teacher—I kind of have to be."

He gave me a sardonic little half-smile. "Indeed."

Amused, I shook my head, and the pasture fence out of the corner of my eye abruptly gave me an idea. "Do you ride?"

"Yes." I could _feel_ his grey eyes follow my line of vision.

"Well?"

He set down his pipe. "I should like nothing better," he said candidly.

I grinned again, hissing "_yes!_" excitedly like a teenager before springing down from the porch and sprinting for the pasture. Behind me, I heard Sherlock's brand-new mocs pound the ground as his longer legs gained on me.

All three Arabians were out on the other side of the pasture. There was David's chestnut gelding Hidalgo, named after the famous racehorse; my own dapple grey mare Silver Blaze, shamelessly named after another racehorse of literary fame; and the young dark bay stallion Thunderhead. Thunderhead was only five years old and actually Christy and Jeremy's steed, but so spirited that I wouldn't allow them to ride him. I rode Thunderhead myself and had tried several times to break him in adequately, but each attempt took so long that I was invariably called away on a case before I could complete the task.

And that gave me an idea.

"Sherlock," I said as I climbed over the fence, "how _good_ a rider are you?"

He followed suit. "Quite good—I was very small when I learned."

I nodded, raising my hand to shield my eyes from the sun. "Ever broken in a horse before?"

He came to stand beside me, his keen eyes observing the horses. "The dark bay."

"Five years old, stallion," I told him, my voice falling into its professional patterns. "Thunderhead. I've tried to do it myself, but I keep getting called away on cases."

"Quite so." He squinted at the stallion as Thunderhead parted company with the older horses and took off along the fence. I read appreciation in his aquiline features, and smiled. "Thunderhead," he murmured.

"Think you can break him in?"

His squinting eyes narrowed further in consideration. "Perhaps. I have broken a horse in once before."

I started forward once more with long, even strides. "You can have a go at any rate."

He matched my stride easily. "Indeed."

"The dapple grey is my mare, Silver Blaze." I flashed a somewhat sheepish smile at him, and he shook his head. "The chestnut was David's gelding, Hidalgo."

"And the stallion is Jeremy's?"

"Jeremy and Christy's, yes. But even though they're good riders themselves, I don't want to chance it, you know?"

"Perfectly understandable."

Hidalgo noticed us and ambled over. I grinned and wrapped an arm around his strong neck. "Hidalgo, this is Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes, Hidalgo." The gelding nuzzled me, and I laughed. "And he's just a big ole softie."

Sherlock smiled. "The horse, I take it?"

"No, I meant you," I grinned, with such a jesting tone that there was no doubt I was teasing.

A split-second chuckle escaped him before he shot me an obligatory scowl, at which I snickered. He slowly extended his hand, palm up, to Hidalgo, who turned his attention from me to the strange new hand. The gelding nickered and smelled the ex-detective's hand, then nickered again in approval. I laughed again. "Looks like you might have a new fan, of the equestrian variety."

"To be sure." Sherlock gently stroked Hidalgo's neck, murmuring reassuringly all the while. I watched with fascination—Sherlock Holmes was actually a horse-person! I felt my face split into an idiotic grin that I hastily dispelled when Sherlock glanced at me. I cleared my throat and called for my mare.

Blaze trotted over, giving me a playful but hard shove in the back. Once I regained my balance, I rounded on her with a scowl, planting my fists on my hips. "Silver Blaze, you idiot! What're you trying to do, assassinate me?"

"Following in her namesake's hoof prints, I see," came an amused voice from behind me.

"Drop dead," I snapped, and had the feeling he was grinning at my back. I whirled around, and his expression flashed for a split-second before resuming its usual deadpan look. "Meet my idiot mare," I ground out, exasperated.

"How do you do, Silver Blaze?" Sherlock nodded courteously, flashing a quick grin at me before holding out his hand for the mare to inspect. Evidently, he met her approval as he had Hidalgo's.

I turned away to watch Thunderhead gallop along the fencing. A beautiful sight, a spirited horse in full gallop. But as a practical matter, Thunderhead could _not_ remain untamed—he had to be worth his keep. Sherlock came to stand beside me, and we watched the stallion for some time in silence, my companion no doubt planning how to break the horse in.

"When shall I start?" he said finally.

"Next week?" I turned to him with a slight smile. "Break him in, and we'll consider your clothes paid for."

"And Watson?"

"I'm sure we'll work out something."

Sherlock lifted his head a bit. "Thank you," he said quietly.

I cocked my head. "For what?"

"For taking us in." He turned his frank, grey gaze on me. "For sacrificing your time and privacy to help us. I realize that this whole affair is a grave undertaking."

My smile grew marginally. "You're welcome, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It's my pleasure."

**

* * *

Author's Note:**

The Narnia scene was one of my favorites. I seriously doubt that even Sherlock Holmes could fail to be touched by the film, and I loved writing the way it was affecting Watson.

The brief Watson/Aubrey scene was one of those fluffy moments I've been dying to have the chance to do. Expect much more fluff along that vein in the future, featuring both Watson _and_ Holmes!

It was also great _finally_ explaining how Kathleen knew the duo was real. Man, can you imagine finding an original copy of STUD? (Not to mention, buying it for less than a million!) I'd die of joy! And can you imagine actually _holding_ their original case files? Ohhh!

The last scene was one of the scenes that needed reworking, but the end result was worth it. My beta and I are in agreement about the attraction of Sherlock Holmes taming a stallion. Quite a lovely idea if I may say so myself… I have to admit, though, that Kathleen and I feel like we're walking on eggshells every time she's talking one-on-one with Sherlock, just 'cause of his notorious aversion to female society. She loves being able to talk with him, but at the same time, I think she's a little nervous that she'll say the wrong thing and turn him off. I'd sure be!

_**Please review!**_


	8. Getting Their Limits

**Author's Note:**

WARNING: slash is discussed between OC and Holmes. I am personally very anti-slash, but I believe that the real Holmes would be, too. I am only writing what I think would be IC.

Stay tuned after the chapter for two bonus features!

**To my reviewers:**

Brazeau: Thanks! The correlation between Holmes's return and Narnia really is the part I'm proudest of in that chapter—I'm so glad you liked it!

The Pearl Maiden: Yesss, more fluff! I likes fluff! =D Ooo, if you liked that last horse scene, you'll love this opening one! …Great, somebody who actually _knows_ horses (BFF excluded) is reading my amateur knowledge. =P *laughs* …Understand about the name—I'll miss it, though. ;-) Hmm, if I ever get the chance I'll check that book out, thanks.

kissbee: Still wowed by your enthusiasm. =) Hey, don't apologize—I'm just glad you made it back… and I'm grateful for the fave! As far as Indiana Jones goes, well, my parents were never really into that, and though we have the first film, Mama's never let us watch it. That's not to say, however that I don't know a good deal about _Raiders of the Lost Ark_—thanks to Lego's franchise and my mom's willingness to volunteer details, I know quite a bit. Someday, I'd like at least to see that first movie.

Well, as far as Rathbone and Cumberbatch are concerned: I've never seen the former, and the latter is a modern-day version, so we don't really see BC perform as a traditional Holmes… (Not that I don't like him, 'cause I do.) But even if Rathbone portrayed Holmes as _accurately_ as JB… well, there's a difference between _accuracy_ and _faithfulness_. In fact, I daresay that Frank Langella was just about as good a Holmes as Jeremy Brett! And for any other Holmes actor to have done what Jeremy did—constantly consult his _Complete Sherlock Holmes_ like a Bible, confront his producers over departures from Canon, pour his heart and soul into it even when he didn't always like it, continue filming even after collapsing during a shoot—I doubt that anyone ever has and ever will again match that kind of dedication. Jeremy Brett is forever Sherlock Holmes to me, and by extension, to Kathleen, as well (especially since _she_ grew up with Granada).

Wow, that was long. xD Me and my essays. Anyway… Kathleen (as well as another OC of mine in different fandom) is bilingual mostly for kicks—actually to _have_ scenarios where she says something and people are left wondering what the world she said, lol. …Me luv _Father of the Bride_! *grins* The Legos scene was fun, and I'm glad you liked the PB&J bit. Fanfic… yes… they're going to be learning about that. ^^ Oh, sleeping!Sherlock was one of my favorite scenes! And my own church has a Baptist name but is non-denominational for the reasons Kathleen explained. I'm glad you appreciated that!

Ha-ha, I _wondered_ when somebody was going to mention Duran Duran! The fact is that Duran is actually a French Jewish name, and it's my grandma's maiden name—hence its usage here. =D And *facepalms* _yes_, the kids are homeschooled—I thought that was established already and then I find out that it wasn't! Grrr. In my own homeschool literature courses, I read several Holmes stories ("Red-Headed League" included) from grades 6-10.

Historian1912: Aww, s'okay—nice to hear from you again! *hugs* Glad you enjoyed the chapter and liked the fiction explanation!

**==Chapter VIII==**

**Getting Their Limits**

"_He also loves children because I've wondered where his love is channeled. Because no one can be that unemotional. So whenever I can, I have the Irregulars around. I think Holmes loves children."_

—Jeremy Brett

_**(Holmes)**_

It had been two years since I had been give occasion to ride horseback, but had it been twenty, I should not have forgotten. My old skill flooded my limbs as I mounted Hidalgo, my instinct helping me adjust to the unfamiliar Western saddle. The gelding was as fine a steed as one could wish for: strong, swift, obedient, and well-tuned to his rider, anticipating my commands as we adjusted to each other. Horses truly are sensitive and intelligent creatures, and I must admit that Hidalgo inspired me to write a monograph on the subject—for my own amusement if I could not publish it.

I found my hostess to be as skilled a rider as myself. The sight of Kathleen leaning against her Silver Blaze in full gallop was art in one of its most natural, spirited forms, so fully one with each other were horse and rider. As they halted before Hidalgo and myself, I clapped in admiration, causing Kathleen's flushed face to flush darker still.

Then it was my turn. Hidalgo and I may have possessed talent equal to our female companions, but we lacked the years of partnership. I knew our performance could not be as flawless, but when I urged Hidalgo into a gallop, it did not matter. I allowed my mind to unwind, to quiet, as I do when I immerse myself in the sweet world of music, and I felt my muscles loosen to meld with those of my mount.

It was exhilarating and calming at once. I pressed my knees tighter against Hidalgo's sides—the mark of a true horseman: staying astride by one's _knees_, not hands—and let the reins go slack, giving my mount his head. I threw back my own head and reveled in the sensation of speed and utter freedom. Truly magnificent.

When at last my spirit returned to earth, I pulled Hidago gently to a stop. Kathleen remained in the saddle, her face shining with admiration and appreciation. She gave a low whistle, eliciting a brief blush from me. "Wow," she said softly. "You said you were good and I didn't doubt it, but, maaan…" She laughed slightly. "That was fantastic."

I pushed a windblown strand of hair out of my eyes. "Thank you. Hidalgo is a fine steed."

"That he is." She trotted Silver Blaze over to our side and leaned over to pat Hidalgo's powerful neck. "You're a good boy, aren't you?" My mount nickered and tossed his head happily. Kathleen straightened. "What say we walk these two around for a bit, then race them?"

"Oh, that would be unfair to Hidalgo and me; you and Silver Blaze have the advantage of a long partnership."

Kathleen smiled secretively. "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that—you two looked pretty good out there." She raised a challenging eyebrow at me, confound the woman. She had already learned—or already _knew_, thank you very much, Watson—that I could not resist a proper challenge.

Half an hour later, she and Blaze _did_ win… but to mine and Hidalgo's credit, it was breathtakingly close.

* * *

When later Kathleen and I searched for Watson indoors, we found him on a couch in the living room, reading a storybook to little Aubrey. Kathleen and I quickly ducked out of sight so that Watson and his charge would not notice us. "Awww," my hostess whispered. "That is so cute!"

I hazarded another swift glance into the living room. "He certainly would have made a fine father," I whispered back.

Kathleen sobered. "He would have. Do you know why he and Mary never had children?"

Babies were not a subject openly discussed in Victorian times, out of propriety—but I knew because of the regular contact I had had with the Watsons. "I do. But that is a question for _Watson_ to answer, not I."

She blushed and dropt her gaze. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to pry."

"I know." She was simply being a mother with a healthy curiosity.

After a few moments, she drew her cellphone out of her pocket and fiddled with it. "I'm going to take a picture of them," she explained, "because that is really just too cute." She leaned back into the doorway and quietly snapped off three photographs without the flash. She returned to my side and showed me the images. "Whaddaya think?"

_Endearing_ was the word that first came to mind, and though I naturally did not say so, I believe Kathleen heard that unspoken sentiment, anyway. "Fine photographs," I replied, slightly irritated at the knowing look she gave me. Before my encounter with The Woman, I "used to make merry over the cleverness of women," and now I heartily regretted it. I almost preferred a female with less brains over a female of quick wit and sharp intuition, thanks to Kathleen Duran's deucedly annoying possession of the latter qualities.

"We'll wait," said she, "until they're done reading before we snag him for gun lessons."

I forced my tone to be light. "How fortuitous to have the remainder of the afternoon free."

She shot me a peeved look. "Oh, hush up."

I have said it before, and I will say it again: I will never understand women.

* * *

_**(Watson)**_

Kathleen rather put us to shame with her marksmanship. As she taught us to use her Glock 10mm (a sidearm), she claimed that she could fire three shots in three seconds at three feet with ninety-six percent bull's-eye accuracy. Holmes and I were duly sceptical—I myself am considered a fine shot, and even I cannot match that sort of precision.

Our hostess quickly showed us that her words were no idle boast. Her precision barely deteriorated even when she switched her gun to her left hand, and I already knew her to be extremely right-handed. She even proved herself a trick shot—again, with both hands—able to shoot coins and such. Holmes and I were obliged to eat humble pie.

The Glock was large and entirely alien in my hands, but I managed some good shots. Holmes's accuracy was not quite as good, but then, he had never taken professional training as Kathleen and I had. Even so, he once hit the bull's-eye on the target, a feat I myself came only agonisingly close to achieving.

After an hour and a half, we turned from firearms to telephones. Holmes and I learned how to operate both house and cellular phones, and Kathleen presented us each with a cellphone of our own (having somehow sneaked that purchase in the day before while shopping).

Holmes took to his phone like a child to a spectacular new toy… I take that back. He _was_ a child with a spectacular new toy. He snapped photographs often, annoyed Kathleen and myself with the occasional text message, and frequently jumped on the Internet. I endured it with the knowledge that my friend was merely trying to keep himself busy, and Kathleen, bless the good woman's heart, had quite enough motherly intuition to understand this, as well.

* * *

We continued to watch _The Chronicles of Narnia_ films throughout the course of the week, and Holmes and I enjoyed them all, though _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_ remained my favourite. However, _Prince Caspian_ also left a deep impression on us with the four Pevensie children returning to a world so drastically changed. It was not unlike what Holmes and I were experiencing every day, albeit with considerably less melancholia. The closing song was quite different from the music I was accustomed to, but entirely fitting.

The final lines caused my heart to ache a little:

_Let your memories grow stronger and stronger_

_Till they're before your eyes_

_You'll come back when they call you_

_No need to say goodbye_

_No need to say goodbye_

I think that Holmes was similarly affected.

* * *

_**(Kathleen)**_

It was two o'clock in the morning when my phone rang softly. If you've ever used an alarm, you might have once heard it on the edge of your subconscious and mistaken it as a part of whatever dream you're experiencing. That was what happened to me then, and it took several quiet rings before my mind finally realized that the sound was real, not imagined. I muttered a mild swear as I grabbed the offending object and checked the caller ID.

Then muttered wordlessly as I recognized the name. I flipped the phone open and hurried to my door to shut it so as not to disturb my guests. "Mike," I growled into the cell, "it's two o'clock _in the bloody morning_—" pardon the language, dear reader, but I do _not_ appreciate being awoken at such ungodly hours—"this had better be good."

"Hey, at least you can _stay home_," Mike Warren snapped back, sounding only marginally less grumpy than I myself was. "It's an armchair case for you—I just need to know what you think about a shooting in a closed toy shop and blue paint."

I rubbed my temples and sank back onto my bed as he proceeded to lay out the bizarre murder for me. Normally, this sort of thing puts me in my element, just like Sherlock Holmes. Just… not at two in the morning.

My own powers of deduction were slowly roused as the rather one-sided conversation went on, but at last, I yawned and said, "Mike, hold on a minute. I'm yawning my head off here, and I'm as much in the dark as you. Can you wait while I make myself some coffee?"

A tired chuckle on the other end. "Go ahead. Call you back in ten minutes?"

"Sure."

"All right, bye."

"Bye."

I headed out to the kitchen, still clutching my cell. I stopped short, however, when I saw a faint glow spilling out of the dining room. My initial instinct was that there was an intruder (a not _il_logical conclusion, given my livelihood), followed up by the reasoning that a burglar would be in the living room, a criminal operative would be in the den (where sat my private computer and not a few other important items), and a kidnapper would be upstairs.

Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. And, in this case, it really wasn't all that improbable.

I smiled exasperatedly. Sherlock.

I poked my head into the room and whispered, "I'm up, just so you know."

He jumped in the computer chair and whirled around, his face dark against the glow of the monitor behind him. "Kathleen!" he hissed in a whisper.

I nodded and moved noiselessly into the room. "I'm just making myself some coffee," I explained. "I got called up for an armchair case, and my brain's too foggy to work anything out."

He nodded and turned halfway back to the computer, then stopped and looked at me again as I reached the kitchen door. "You don't mind my being here at this time of night, do you?" Something about his monitor-lit expression struck me as off-kilter, but I was still too groggy to work it out.

My instinctive reaction was to say, "No, it's okay," but I stopped myself and forced my foggy brain to consider the question seriously. There was no telling how long Sherlock and John would be here, and habits were being established this first week. "If it's important, and you still get… four hours of sleep?... I guess it's okay. But hey, don't make it a regular routine, all right? Trust me when I say from experience that it's not healthy."

He cocked his head in a contemplative way and shrugged.

"I'll take that as a yes," I told him, flicking on the soft lights and making for the fridge. In this house, when we have leftover coffee, the coffee is bottled up in the fridge to be taken out at a later time and heated up in a little pot on the stove. Fortunately for me, there _was_ some leftover coffee, so I quickly got it heating.

I turned back to the dining room and met Sherlock's eyes when he flicked a quick glance at me. "Sherlock," I murmured, "something wrong?"

He turned back to me, and I winced at the look on his face, horror and revulsion mixed together—not _strongly_, but enough to recognize the emotions. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" I hurried to his side.

He shook his head, and I looked up at the monitor. …And inhaled sharply before swearing once more under my breath. "Oh, _Sherlock_…"

"I'm sorry to have troubled—"

"Troubled _nothing_! I'm _glad_ I'm up, now—I sure wouldn't want you to be dealing with _this_ one alone!" I straightened, fully awake now. And angry.

"I… did not know what _slash_ meant…" He clicked away from the current FFN tab to a deviantArt page, and I felt the color drain from my face.

"Oh, _Sherlock!_"

"I know," he moaned miserably, hiding his face in his hands. I couldn't blame him—_I_ didn't want to see the image!

"Sherlock, how could you even _see_ this? This ought to be a censored pi…" My eye caught the username on the corner of the page. He was _logged in_. "Oh, Sherlock, you didn't!" I groaned. "_Tell_ me you didn't register on dA just to see those blocked pictures."

"I did," came the answering moan from behind those long white hands.

I quickly clicked away from the offending image of himself and John—I leave the rest of the description up to the imagination of my readers. "Oh, Sherlock…" I felt so bad for him—what a way to be introduced to homosexual pairing of himself and his best friend! "I think this is what's called 'brain scarring,'" I grimaced. "You, my friend, are in _bad_ need of some brain bleach."

"And what the devil is brain bleach?" He finally lowered his hands.

"Eesh, it's one of those things that's easier to _know_ than to _explain_." I sighed. "You think you'll be okay?"

"I've just discov—"

My phone went off at that highly inconvenient moment. "Hold that thought," I muttered, and quickly raised the blasted thing. "Mike, can I call you back in a few? Something's come up here, thanks." I shut it before Mike could even respond. Five seconds later, I received a text: _Make it snappy_. I fired back a retort: _However long it takes_, and turned back to Sherlock. "Sorry, you were saying?"

He scowled. "I've just discovered that a large portion of my 'fanbase' writes and even _draws_ myself and my only friend as a homosexual couple! Do you really think that I'll be 'okay'?"

Ouch, that was loud-ish. I prayed fervently that God would keep John and the kids asleep—John, especially. His appearance was the _last_ thing we needed right now.

"Look, Sherlock, I know it's a shock, and I'm sorry. I don't like it any more than you do. But that's what some people like to fantasize about, and I know from hard experience that you can't change their minds about it."

"But it's wrong!"

"So's crime, and you usually don't change people's minds about that, either!" I sighed and rubbed at my temples. "Look, just stay away from anything that says _slash_ or _Holmes-slash-Watson_ or _Sherlock-slash-John_… or anything that lists you two as the main characters, talks about your relationship in the summary, and has _Romance_ in the genre. That ought to keep you mostly safe."

He scowled blackly at the monitor as if this whole mess were the poor machine's fault. "That's all well and good for Fan Fiction Dot Net, but what about Deviant Art?"

I shrugged helplessly. "The thumbnails—the pictures in miniature—are usually helpful. Sometimes brain-scarring, too, but you can't be quite as careful on dA as you can be on FFN. I'm sorry—there's really not much more I can say."

He shook his head. "It is not your fault, Kathleen." He steepled his fingers, and I was heartened a little by the familiar action. "Pray don't apologize for the wrongdoings of others."

"Yes, sir," I said softly. He looked up at me, and I smiled gently at him. "Why don't you go to bed, huh? I think you've had enough for tonight."

He shook his head once again. "No… I don't want to go to bed with _this_ in my head."

"Mm, good point. Hey, have you been to YouTube yet?"

"Yes, why?"

"Why don't you look up, um…" Shoot, not the Granada series—being reminded of Jeremy Brett wouldn't help… Ohhh, inspiration! Thank goodness. "Oh, I know!" I leaned over, pulled up YouTube, and keyed a title into the search engine.

Sherlock leaned forward and squinted at the results. "Frank Langella as Sherlock Holmes?"

"Uh-huh. Ever heard of William Gillette?"

He grinned up at me. "I've _met_ the man. I can't say that I care for his coupling me with the fictitious Miss Alice Faulkner, but he did a fine job otherwise of portraying me."

I grinned back, delighted. "Oh, wow, you'll have to tell me about that sometime!" Turning back to the screen, I explained, "This is a televised play from 1981—it's adapted somewhat from the Gillette original. How far, I don't know, 'cause I don't know all the details of Gillette's play. But I've always enjoyed it, and I think you will, too."

"Indeed?" He opened up the first video in a playlist for the show. "I shall be the judge of that. Thank you, Kathleen."

"No problem," I smiled over my shoulder, returning to the kitchen. "Just… get to bed before five, will you?" I closed the door behind me and redialed Mike's number.

* * *

_**(Watson)**_

The week moved on, and Holmes and I continued to learn about the present day. The Duran family was an indescribable blessing, a constant support in this time. They took us in as family, and even Holmes appreciated it.

He had his own moments with the children, just as I did, and I had seldom seen Sherlock Holmes more at peace. Despite his initial grumbling about "an indefinite stay in a house full of children," the man actually loved children. I had glimpsed it before in his dealings with his Baker Street Irregulars, and I saw it again now, more openly. Some have said that his three-year disappearance softened Holmes somewhat, and one could add that advancing years and several months of retirement were continuing to mellow him.

I was not sorry for the ongoing change. It was like watching a rose unfold its petals late in the year when the flowers should be fading rather than blooming. Homes truly had a great heart—not at all the _brain without a heart_ that I had once so callously labeled him—and I was seeing it gradually revealed, bit by tiny bit, before my very eyes.

Sherlock Holmes was not the only person I was studying during this time. Certainly, I was also studying the children, but it was their mother who captured my curiosity. The one and only independent investigative consultant made for an intriguing case, herself.

To start with, Kathleen Duran was as good as her word in regards to our "intensive training." She demonstrated remarkable patience with our endless questions as well as an unflagging no-nonsense attitude. I could not help but think what a fine professional teacher she would have made.

A _professional_ teacher, mind—she did teach her children herself. My respect for her increased exponentially, for one would think that being a single parent, running a large household and small farm of sorts, teaching several children, and supporting a family by a demanding career would run any man or woman into the ground. But the only signs of exhaustion she ever showed were the copious amounts of coffee she consumed and the way she threw herself onto the sofa (the one I observed was considered her personal property) and absolutely refused to do any work past six in the evening. She tackled her responsibilities with the kind of zealous energy I had long ago come to associate with Sherlock Holmes.

By the end of the week, I had drawn up a list of my hostess's strengths and weaknesses, just as I had done for Holmes in those early days of our relationship.

KATHLEEN DURAN—her limits.

**1.** Knowledge of literature.—Solid working knowledge. Has not read very many works published before the year 1800 with the exception of Shakespeare, but is by no means ignorant of older writings. Does much better with 19th century works.

**2.** Knowledge of Philosophy.—Amateurish. Prefers to draw her own philosophy off the Bible and her own experiences rather than classis philosophical works. Has a half-remembered knowledge of Machiavelli—has not read _The Prince_ in many years, but recalls some disturbing bits.

**3.** Knowledge of Astronomy.—Average. Would like to study more in-depth, but not a high priority.

**4.** Knowledge of Politics.—Profound.

**5.** Knowledge of Botany.—Excellent. Well up in both poisons _and_ practical gardening.

**6.** Knowledge of Geology.—Practical, and a hobby at times. Does not bother to memorise all soil types in New York, but does have a keen eye toward dirt samples in a case.

**7.** Knowledge of Chemistry.—Variable. Well up in explosive compounds. Feeble knowledge otherwise.

**8.** Knowledge of Anatomy.—Profound. Knows about as much as one _can_ without earning a medical degree. Can perform and aid in battlefield surgery, but is not professionally trained.

**9.** Knowledge of Sensational Literature.—Feeble in general. Considering the trash written these days, I cannot blame her (and Holmes scoffs at _my_ literary tastes!). Profound in science fiction, slightly less in fantasy.

**10.** Plays the piano and guitar well.

**11.** Excels in a variety of combat forms and weapons.—Martial arts, "street-fighting," swordplay. Markswoman with both gun and bow and arrow.

**12.** Has a sound practical knowledge of American law, specialising in the U.S. Constitution.

Holmes chuckled when I showed him my observations. "At it again, eh, Watson? But look here, old chap, you've missed three things at least." He scribbled onto the sheet _author & reporter_, _experienced horsewoman_, and _first-class singer_.

I shrugged, privately amused at his high—though not at all undeserved—estimation of Kathleen's musical talent. "I suppose I could also have put down _teacher_ and _cook_."

"Mm. You might also have mentioned that she's a typist and an artist."

I raised my eyebrows. "Why _typist_, and… _artist_?"

"Quite so. She can type over a hundred words per minute—I've seen her do it. And have you never been in the den? The walls are papered with her sketches, which might have earned her a tidy living had she decided to pursue that particular talent."

"Good heavens," I laughed, "the woman's as multifaceted as you, Holmes!"

He smiled pensively. "Perhaps. But let us not forget that I am not the _only_ multifaceted person in this partnership, my dear fellow."

I smiled back. "I could never match you there, Holmes."

"I would not be so sure, Doctor," Holmes said over his shoulder as he strode to my bedroom door. "I _still_ do not get your limits."

**

* * *

Author's Note:**

The list of "Kathleen's limits" was originally in the last chapter but got bumped back. That was fun doing that.

Oh, and Holmes is a softie. Sorry, but it needed to be said. ;-) Don't believe me? Just read 3GAR.

And poor Watson. I wish he _could_ have been a father—he would have made a fine one. The mental image of him reading to little Aubrey is really just too precious.

_**Please review!**_

_**

* * *

On FFN This Christmas Season:**_

"Dear Lord, You know I'm not a praying man, but I need help right now."

"Wiggins, I need you to find the Doctor."

"You see, John, you've really had a wonderful life."

"To my dear friend John Watson—the richest man in London!"

"_Remember: __No__ man is a failure who has __friends_."

**Starring John Watson, Mary Watson, Sherlock Holmes, and Inspector Lestrade in**

_**It's a Wonderful Life, Doctor**_

_**

* * *

Sneak-Preview for Future Chapters!**_

"Kathleen, is this…"

"Yes. Go ahead, try it out."

"Goodbye, Sherlock! …I just kissed Sherlock Holmes. Oh my word, I can't believe it. Bye!"

"And there goes a woman I don't think _any_ man could _ever_ understand."

"Get out the map, old boy—you're navigating."

"Get packed, guys—we're going on a little trip."

"…I think they're all here, Holmes."

"Watson, what in heaven's name are you _doing_?"

"It's called _mowing the lawn_."

"Hear ye, hear ye, this court is now in session, the right Honorable Kathleen Duran presiding."

"You act as your own bailiff?"

"Everybody else is involved in the hearing."

"The den's all filled with smoke!"

"Mama, he's having trouble breathing!"

"Six years since he died, yes."

"Kathleen, for heaven's sake, stop trying to hold it in. You're a _person_, not a machine."

"I really never do get your limits, my dear Watson."

"I should think you'd be used to it by now."

"Thank you for staying with me, Holmes."

"My dear fellow, why should I do any less?"

"Sometimes, I hate my job. I can't ever really get used to… to things like _that_."

"Perhaps it's better that you don't."

"We'd better quarantine Holmes and the little ones."

"Me, too, I think."

"Oh, that's good."

"It's a puppy."

"I can see that, Holmes."

"Kathleen, is that really you?"

"Beneath the hair dye, eye contacts, and mascara, yeah. Hi, John."

"Maybe she'll give up."

"Oh, _right_. Mama—our _mother_, _Kathleen_ Aubrey Stewart _Duran_—give up when she's looking for something? Where have you _been_ for the past twenty years?"

"That stuff's _illegal_ and _dangerous_ and-and… Sherlock Holmes, you are such an idiot!"

"I will thank you to keep your amateur medical opinion to yourself."

"John, _he's not breathing!_"

"Sherlock, which do you prefer: Ebenezer Holmes or Sherlock Scrooge?"

"We can hang the mistletoe up, but it's up to _them_ if they follow the tradition or not."

"Someone help me with this mountain, please!"

"I hope it works."

"It works."

"Every criminal mastermind has his own style of committing a crime, just like every person has their own style of handwriting. This isn't Stirling's style."

"No! …Take… take me. Not Watson. I'll go."

"Holmes!"

"I will not be used as revenge on Kathleen."

"Oh… I'm afraid _you_ don't have much of a choice."

"He's playing you like a finely-tuned instrument."

"If he dies, I'm holding _you_ responsible, Tim."

"Kathleen, say _hello_."

"Rick."

"I'm afraid the leg is quite useless."

"Go to blazes, Rick."

"You first."

**-END SPOILERS-**


	9. At Home and Abroad

**Author's Note:**

Happy New Year, everyone! Here's a nice long chapter to reward you all for your patience; sorry that you _had_ to be patient, but this chapter was incredibly problematic for me—I went through multiple drafts before it finally started falling into place. I have **teenelizabeth** to thank for helping me (also for catching the many grammar mistakes I made in this chapter, eesh!). Oh, and thanks to everybody who read and reviewed **"A Time for Christmas."** I certainly didn't expect as many reviews as I got! (If you haven't read it yet, you might want to check it out—it's a companion piece, and it's on my profile.) Also, glad that you enjoyed the spoilers in the last chapter!

The majority of _this_ chapter is actually in Holmes's POV. Wow, I really didn't expect _that_ to happen! There's also a lot of Christy and quite a bit of Aubrey, as well as some Watson!angst (apparently, you can't have a Sherlockian epic _without_ it, though I actually prefer Holmes!torture ;D).

Also, no guarantees on when I can get the next chapter done, sorry. I gots to plot it out still! Meantime, check out my profile—I have a link to a Picasa album page full of Sherlockian icons made by yours truly. They're free for grabs!

**To my reviewers:**

Historian1912: Your excitement amuses and delights me. =D My favorite Sherlockian author, KCS, once wrote a one-shot in which Holmes made his own list of Watson's limits, if you'd like to read it: h t t p : / / www . fanfiction . net /s/4147365/1/A_Mans_Limits Oh, and as soon as my fantasy is in the press, I'll let you know. ;D

As far as _For Good_ goes, I actually have Chapter 9 for _Breakaway_ in the works, and it's veeery different from the original. Very Warp/Erin-centric (not necessarily _romantically_), and you'll also get to meet an important OC. I still hope to slowly but surely get through the series, including making it past the first installment. Don't use the roleplays as a standard, because they are actually so very far from what I have in mind—about all that they have in common are the couples (that, and the scattered bits of info about Erin's time in the Academy). …Btw, hope you did well on your semester exams!

The Pearl Maiden: Yeah, see, _that's_ why I got afraid about an equestrian reading my horse scenes. *sighs* In my defense, I got the "holding on with your knees" from C.S. Lewis's The Horse and His Boy, in which the horse Bree tells the boy Shasta to hold on with his knees rather than by the reins. At least I did know about the "heels down." =D I do have another friend that's a horse girl (I think it's her major in college), and we talk often, but if I ever have a question she can't answer, I'll be sure to come to you next. Thanks, hon! (Oh, and though I enjoyed writing "A Time for Christmas," I hardly think it was "amazing," lol.)

kissbee: *grins* Wait no more, Pooh Bear makes his début in this chapter, although I think it will be in the next chapter that Holmes is introduced to him. _The Great Mouse Detective_… will come. Sometime. ^^ And I'm not ticked off at all by your lists—I enjoy reading them! (I really appreciate your taking the time to give me such nice, long, cushy reviews!)

A dog… my lips are sealed, sorry. *winks* …Eh, Kathleen needs her own sofa, though I don't think she'd go so far as to kill to keep it. =D Yeeeah, she's rather feisty. It's all in her genes—I should know. Hmm, now Holmes and video games… interesting idea, hadn't thought of that one… Well, as I said before, the slash discussion was what I honestly think Holmes would feel about the issue. *shrugs*

x-Pick'n'Mix-x: Ha-ha, thank you! Sorry for the wait, but like I said, this chapter gave me serious issues. Glad you enjoyed the Christmas fic!

nomdeplume30: Aaand once again the spoilers were a success—hope they keep you coming back for more. =) And I hope you enjoy this update.

Brazeau: Wow, thanks! Yeah, little Aubrey seems to be ending up Watson's girl. =) And it is kind of perversely funny that Holmes registered on dA just to see the blocked pic, and just like him, too. …Christmas really inspired my muse this year, and the result was a rash of new SH fics. Hope you enjoy them, as well!

**==Chapter IX==**

**At Home and Abroad**

_Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also._

_**(Kathleen)**_

I disentangled myself from Edward's and Aubrey's arms and hastily stepped back. "Okay, guys—I really have to get going, or I'll miss my flight."

Clarice smiled over Kirk's head. "Have a safe trip." _That_ opened up a floodgate of farewells from the kids.

"Good luck, Mama!"

"Send postcards!"

"Knock 'em dead!

"Love you!"

"Bring back chocolate!"

"Be careful!"

"_Vaya con Dios_!"

Sometimes, leaving my kids behind makes me want to cry—usually when I'm going to be gone for a few days or longer. I was definitely tearing up as I said, "Bye, guys—I love you!" I hurried into the car and shut the door, waving as I started the engine. A chorus of _goodbyes_ followed me.

As I pulled away from the house, a gentle voice behind me said, "Will you be all right?"

I sniffed and nodded. "Yeah—" I wiped an irritating tear out of my eye—"I'll be okay, John, thanks." I let out a sort of barking half-laugh. "Question is, will _you_ two be?"

"I believe Watson and I can manage," Sherlock said dryly.

"And you're sure, John, that you can handle driving back home?"

"With Holmes navigating for me," John said confidently, "I should do fine."

"And you have Mike's cell number in case you need help?"

"Right here on My Contacts."

"Mine, as well," Sherlock added.

"Good." At that point, we left the driveway. "I've probably driven a car's lifetime through New York City, and I _still_ hate doing it. John, if it gives you a headache, you know where the Ibuprofen is, right?"

"Affirmative, Houston."

I laughed incredulously. "_Where_ did you pick up _that_?"

"Cameron," John grinned.

I laughed again and shook my head. "Two and a half weeks. Two and a half weeks and you're already using modern slang…"

"Quick learners," Sherlock supplied.

"Your exam scores proved that."

It was Tuesday, May 6th; Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had been living in my home since April 19th. My children had readily accepted their beloved heroes as family, but it amazed me how quickly Sherlock and John were adapting. Probably a houseful of Sherlockians made the transition easier, but even so…

Now here we were, the boys and I, driving to New York City where I'd catch a plane to Berlin. I made it a point not to get mixed up with the CIA, the FBI, the NSA, NATO, etc. when I could help it. Too much corruption, too much stuff that was pro-Federalist or pro-UN, which _really_ went against my grain. Sometimes, however, a certain general in the USAF did a little _arm-twisting_, just _one_ of the reasons why I didn't get along very well with my half-brother anymore (one of these days, the military hierarchy was going to find a very dead lieutenant general in its midst). I was now on-assignment with the CIA on an affair in Berlin, the details of which remain highly classified. I would be away from home for a week at the very least, probably more.

Normally, such situations would require an extended babysitting _à la Clarice_, who was actually with the kids right at that moment. This time, however, Clarice was relegated to backup, while _Sherlock and John_ would be holding down the fort. I might have been more nervous about the situation had Christy and Jeremy been younger, but she was twenty and he was seventeen; though they argued to kingdom come, both had good heads on their shoulders. If our Victorian guests could just keep the kids in line, Christy and Jeremy could handle the practical matters of running a household. Thankfully, I didn't even have to worry about the garden being started late, since my dad volunteered to oversee horticultural operations while I was away (which was usually the case, anyway).

Speaking of which, by this point in time, yes, my parents knew. In fact, being only an hour's drive away, they'd recently had dinner with us like they do every so often, and they got to meet our guests. Though initially and understandably skeptical, they eventually warmed up to Sherlock and John. My thoroughly Sherlockian father was just about in paradise that night.

Anyway, as far as leaving Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson to baby-sit my kids was concerned, I technically had nothing to worry about.

The thought did nothing to ease the anxiety gnawing at my stomach.

* * *

_**(Watson)**_

I need only a few words to sum up my initial (and enduring) impressions of New York City: vast, busy, bright, loud, and insane. The traffic was "murder," as Kathleen put it. And as we drove through the metropolis, I noticed something else—damaged buildings and construction almost every which way one turned. When I asked Kathleen about it, she said that the city was still recovering from the war that had ended ten years ago. She would say nothing more.

At any rate, we still made it to the airport in good time, and as we traversed that huge complex, Kathleen fired off a last-minute mental checklist. Holmes and I were prepared, but on the other hand, it _was_ her privilege to fret. At last, her luggage (of which there had been a good deal—she conformed to a female stereotype in _that_ respect, at least) was taken care of, and she had just a few more minutes before she had to board her plane.

"Goodbye, John!" She flung her arms around me and kissed me solidly on the cheek, upon which I both colored and chuckled.

"Goodbye, Kathleen, and take care of yourself," I smiled.

"Will do!" she said, a bit more cheerily now, her eyes alight with the prospect of her first case in over two weeks. She turned to Holmes and said, "Goodbye, Sherlock!" She flung her arms around him, too, and kissed him right on the cheek. I nearly choked in surprise, and Holmes froze briefly, then chuckled self-consciously.

"Goodbye, Kathleen," he managed.

Kathleen seemed only then to realize what she had done, and clapped her hand over her mouth as her eyes went perfectly round. "I just kissed Sherlock Holmes," she gasped in a rush, looking like nothing so much as lovesick schoolgirl at that moment. "Oh my word, I can't believe it." She seemed to be unable to decide whether to be elated and triumphant or embarrassed and apologetic. "Bye!" She hefted her laptop case and sprinted away for her flight.

I laughed in amazement. "And there goes a woman I don't think _any_ man could _ever_ understand."

"I believe the proper term is _fangirlism_." A hint of shock remained in his expression as we began to retrace our steps through the colossal airport. "However, I did not expect a highly intelligent woman to display such behaviour outside the anonymity of the Internet."

I chuckled. "Fangirlism, eh? I _have_ observed that she idolizes you."

"Watson."

"Don't tell me you haven't seen it."

Holmes snorted. "You obviously didn't _see_ her berating me for leaving my laundry in my room."

I grinned, easily imagining the scene. "Apparently not."

"A Scotch-Irish temper is bad enough, a Latin Jewish temper the same, but _combine_ them and the results are rather explosive."

"German and Polish."

"Beg pardon?"

"She's also German and Polish," I clarified. "Ruth told me."

"Ah. A true American—a woman of many nationalities."

"Something like that," I smiled. "Not that either of us can claim purebred lineage either, what with your French grandmother and my own Scottish grandparents."

"Indeed," Holmes said absently, his keen gaze flitting around from one person to the next, obviously making deductions about each of them.

"For all her faults, however," I continued, "she's a good friend."

"Undoubtedly."

"And a fine criminal."

"Quite s—_Watson_."

I laughed. "Merely testing your conversational focus, my dear fellow."

He snorted, then muttered something unintelligible as we finally left the building.

I scanned the parking lot for the Durans' black Subaru and spotted it. "Let's just focus on getting home, shall we?"

"An _excellent_ idea."

"Good…" I unlocked the car and climbed in. "Get out the map, old boy—you're navigating."

* * *

_**(Holmes)**_

"We _are_ lost, aren't we?"

"We are not lost—I have a perfectly accurate roadmap. I simply need to extrapolate our position on it."

"In other words, we're lost."

"We are nothing of the kind."

"You just cannot admit defeat, can you?"

"I am perfectly capable of the action."

"But perfectly unwilling."

"Stoplight."

"I _see_ i—wait a moment!" The car slowed to a halt at the intersection, and Watson turned to face me. "How did you know what a stoplight is?"

I gave him a disappointed look. "Tut, tut, old man—it's practical knowledge."

"So are driving skills."

"Well, that's what I have _you_ for—haven't you read 'His Last Bow'?"

Watson threw me a displeased glance. "Biographer, bodyguard, partner, and personal physician… that's one thing. But if you think that I would _ever_ degrade myself to _chauffer_…"

"Even in an affair of international importance? Watson, you surprise me."

The light turned green, only momentarily cutting off his retort. "I'll simply teach you how to drive before I'm ever faced with such a decision."

"I do not care for motorcars, thank you."

"What difference does that make? Practical is practical, and what if I wasn't able to drive you somewhere? What if Kathleen couldn't, or Christy or Jeremy? What would you do then?"

I considered. "I am sure there must be some kind of transportation service available—"

Watson shook his head. "Not like there is in the city."

I folded my arms stubbornly. Automobiles had certainly changed drastically since our time, but my dislike for them had not. They reminded me too sharply of what the world was losing at the close of the Victorian Era.

"Consider it, at least?" I heard Watson say.

I nodded reluctantly. "I shall."

* * *

"Mr. Hooolmes!" Christy's moan from the dining room several hours later bordered on a whine. "What've you done to the computer?"

I scowled and made my way back to said dining room. "I have several downloads in progress…"

"Which ties up the bandwidth—no wonder Gchat wasn't working! I was _supposed_ to talk with a friend this afternoon!"

"Very well, I'll pause them." As long as the older children were getting along with each other, Christy ruled the roost, and I would do well not to make an enemy of a twenty-year-old female—heaven knows girls are so unstable at that age. I performed the task and turned to her. "Satisfied?"

At least she was sincere in her gratitude as she said, "Yes, thank you." But then she continued: "So… you're looking up different adaptations?"

"Quite so. I trust there's nothing wrong in that?"

"No, no, just wondering." She took another look at the monitor screen. "Ronald Howard, Basil Rathbone, Robert Downey, Jr.—oh, boy—Peter Cushing, Christopher Plummer, Christopher Lee, Robert Stephens…" She giggled at that last one, and looked up at me, her dark eyes dancing. Despite the fact that there was no computer-fast brain lurking behind those eyes, she looked very much like her mother in that moment. "That one's interesting—Robert Stephens, I mean. I'm… not sure you'll like it, though."

"I'm quite sure I'll survive."

"I would warn against RDJ, for sure—you'll probably have a hernia or something."

I sighed theatrically. "Christy, I am an adult; I can take care of myself. And I've read multiple conflicting opinions on the 2009 film—I want to judge for myself."

"You won't like it."

"_Thank_ you, Christy."

She shrugged. "We have the Ronald Howard series, you know. The Robert Stephens movie, too, though that one's just a computer file."

"That's all right; I'm simply fishing for clips right now."

She nodded. "We also have the RDJ movies as computer files…" She smirked. "There's one scene where I _know_ what happens, but Mama won't let me _see_ it; and to be honest, I'm okay with that. What I really like about those movies is Jude Law—I like his Watson, and I like the friendship dynamics. Other than that…" She made a buzzer sound and gave a double thumbs-down.

I laughed. "Thank you, O Sherlockian Critic."

She smiled sheepishly, then took another look at the monitor. "You're not downloading any Jeremy Brett clips?"

"Well, I _do_ know that you have a boxed set of the series."

Her brown eyes flashed over me in a piercing manner I would not have associated with her. "You're bothered about what happened to him."

I arched an eyebrow, too impressed with her quick (and accurate) deduction to be very affronted. "And how did you deduce that?"

She raked a hand through her hair, a habit she had picked up from her mother. "The Granada series is one of Mama's top favorites, so one would think that she'd jump at the opportunity to watch it with you and the Doctor. Instead… it's like she avoids all mention of it, which really isn't like her. I mean, she loved Jeremy Brett so much that she named one of her sons after him."

I thought as much, concerning Jeremy Duran's name. "And?"

"Well, you're not looking up any clips of Granada, even though you said you were fishing. And I figure that if you _did_ know about Jeremy Brett's later life, it would… um…" She hesitated, with more consideration than I might have shown had positions been reversed.

"'Bother' me?" I finished for her.

She nodded wordlessly.

"Correct, all the way through, Christy. Well done."

She drew herself up defensively. "Just 'cause I don't have Mama's lightning-fast brain doesn't mean I'm entirely without perception." Then, just as quickly, she deflated. "Sorry. I, um… Jeremy… well, you've probably figured out by now that Jeremy's smarter than I am. And he's my younger brother. That, uh, that causes some friction."

And that was probably an understatement. "I can imagine," was all I said. Being the younger of two brothers myself and certainly Mycroft's inferior in intellect, I could not personally _know_, but I certainly could _imagine_. "Christy, permit me a personal question?"

"Fair is fair, I guess," she shrugged. "What is it?"

"From what I've gathered, most young people are living out of their family's house by your age, and most young people are employed and in college."

"And I'm neither."

"Quite so."

Sighing, she looked down and raked her hand through her hair again. "Yeah, and I sometimes get flak for that, too—I mean, not _harsh_ criticism or anything, but just… well, people just don't understand." She met my gaze frankly. "Do you?"

I gave that question the solemn consideration it deserved. Christy was a young adult both childish and mature with buoyant spirits, but I'd also often detected a veiled defensiveness. This was a girl who was used to being criticised, and had erected a defence to try to protect herself. But she was also sensitive, and I feared that whatever darts to which she had been subjected often hit home and struck very deeply.

"I believe I may," I said slowly. "The pervasive love in your home is quite evident—a sensitive, caring girl such as yourself would be quite hesitant to leave it. Also, though your thoughts and ideals are quite mature, your nature is still quite young; you prefer staying home where it's safe, where you have your niche in life, and where you need not worry about all the practicalities of day-to-day living. And a regrettable laziness in your nature makes you rather adverse to the idea of subjecting yourself to another's employ, while an inherent need to follow your ideals alone brings you to pursue an independent career as your mother has done."

She nodded slowly, clearly impressed. "Right on all accounts," she admitted. "I hate to admit it, but it's true: I _am_ lazy. I've gotten… I've gotten better about it, over the past couple of years, but… I don't know, sometimes, I don't feel very old at all."

"I'm afraid I cannot empathise with that feeling," I smiled.

She grinned. "Well, you were probably _born_ old. Y'know, test tube in one hand, magnifying glass in the other."

I chuckled at that. "I think you'd be surprised to know what I was like as a child."

She pounced on that remark, her eyes alight with enthusiasm. "Tell me? Pretty please?"

Unfortunately for her, I was quite immune to the charm of a pretty young woman, no matter how sweet. "I think not. Besides, isn't your friend waiting for you on Gchat?"

Her eyes widened, and her jaw fell. "Lissie! I forgot!"

I laughed. "You'd best get on and explain that you were conversing with a fictitious retired Victorian detective."

She let out a brief laugh, and I was subject to a display of fangirlism for the second time in less than twelve hours. She embraced me briefly and impulsively, saying, "You're pretty cute sometimes, you know that?"

Before I was able even to stammer out a vaguely coherent sentence, she was seated at the computer and "dead to the world." I blinked, shook my head, and—to my eternal mortification—turned to see Watson standing in the hallway just beyond the door and grinning puckishly at me. "Like mother, like daughter," he said mildly, and ducked out of sight.

* * *

_**(Kathleen)**_

I flopped onto the bed in my hotel room, breathing a long sigh of relief. I enjoy flights, but they always wear me out. On the taxi ride to the hotel, I'd made the usual phone call home, letting the kids (and two certain Victorian gentlemen, this time) know that I'd arrived safely.

I rolled onto my stomach and reached down for my laptop case, pulling it up and digging out my laptop. I checked my email accounts—nothing new that was important, except for a review on a Sherlock Holmes fanfic. Yes, eternal childhood, thank you.

Every now and then, I did Startpage searches on the two men who were currently our guests. I don't know what prompted me to do it now, typing in Dr. John Watson, but I was totally unprepared for one of the results. "The Blog of John H. Watson, M.D." It was not the title that surprised me; rather, as I read it, it was the realization that this wasn't just a fan roleplaying—this was _John Watson_, the Real Deal. His style was unmistakable.

Wide-eyed, I scrolled down through the blog and discovered that John had been doing this for three days already. It wasn't a description of his current time-travel situation, but a log of his adventures with Sherlock, starting with _A Study in Scarlet_, which he had not gotten past yet. In fact, this version of "STUD" contained material that hadn't been seen in the original—honest-to-goodness deleted scenes! I realized then just what a genius John Watson was: he couldn't really write and publish more cases under his name, but he had the heart of a writer. The stories he had to tell needed an outlet. And even if no one took his writings seriously, he was still _writing_, still releasing stories for others to enjoy.

Who knew? Maybe, with any luck, we'd finally get the true story of the giant rat of Sumatra, the shocking affair of the Dutch steamship _Friesland_, and all those other cases to which the good Doctor alluded but never published. Meantime, I was going to enjoy this bonus material thoroughly.

* * *

_**(Watson)**_

I was coming to regard film entertainment as the curse of the modern era, one of my reasons for this belief being that I myself already harbored an addiction. Edward and Aubrey did nothing to remedy the situation. In the past fortnight, the little ones had begged me to watch several _Veggie Tales_ DVDs, and despite the often bizarre and absurd aspects of the show (or rather, perhaps, _because_ of them), I found it quite amusing.

On this first night of their mother's absence, the children turned from musical produce to talking animal toys. In other words, we watched _The New Adventures of Winnie the Pooh_.

Aubrey was on my lap, and Edward was curled up against me. I could not help but marvel at their implicit trust; I was their hero, therefore I was kin. It sent a sharp pang through my heart, bittersweet, for I knew that I was experiencing something denied to me ten years ago when my wife and son died in labour. Ten years later for me and a hundred and thirty-one for the world, I was, somehow, something very much like a father to two fatherless children.

A tear escaped my defenses and rolled down my cheek, and it was at that moment that Aubrey chose to glance up at me. Her perfect little face puckered into a frown as she said, "Doctor, why are you crying? Is it 'cause the show's sad?" At that, Edward looked up at me questioningly.

Indeed, it was at a melancholy scene, in which Tigger was lamenting his lack of identity. (It may sound humourous, dear reader, but rest assured that it actually was quite a poignant moment in the episode.) I forced a smile at the little girl and said, "I'm fine, Aubrey, truly. Let's just watch the show, shall we?"

"Okay," said she, though she sounded less than certain, and Edward cast me a dubious look. "Don' worry—Tigger's gonna get all his stripes back."

I managed to laugh past the lump in my throat. "Very well, then, I shan't worry."

* * *

_**(Holmes)**_

Watson was rather quiet that night; from the pensively melancholy glances he kept giving Aubrey and Edward, it was not difficult to deduce whither his thoughts were. They lay with a modest grave in churchyard thousands of miles away across an ocean. Action had to be taken.

Aid seemed to come in the form of Christy, who suggested that we watch the Frank Langella Sherlock Holmes play once the younger children were in bed. As I had already viewed this adaptation on YouTube and knew it to be quite comical in parts, I agreed; and the eldest three children, Watson, and I gathered around the dining room monitor to watch the regrettably low-resolution videos.

It appeared to work. Watson chuckled and laughed along with the others, and victory seemed assured. Unfortunately, I had forgotten that the Watson in the film was married and that his wife was mentioned a few times. To my Boswell's credit, he barely reacted visibly, though I cursed my deplorable forgetfulness.

Even so, the film turned out to be a success. Watson turned to me with a twinkle in his eye, and I knew what he would say. I silently begged him with my eyes not to say it before Christy, Jeremy, and Cameron, but he would have none of it. "Now, Holmes, how _ever_ did you let a good, dear girl like that go?"

Jeremy and Cameron made faces, but Christy giggled.

"I can give you one very good reason," I said coolly.

"Oh, quite so, quite so," Watson agreed amiably. He shook his head and tsk-tsked. "Such a shame."

Christy doubled over giggling, and Jeremy surged to his feet. "I'm going to bed," he declared in a somewhat disgusted tone—his sentiment directed at his older sister. "Goodnight."

"I'm going, too," Cameron added, rising to leave.

A round of goodnights was exchanged, in which Christy slipped away before her brothers left the room. Watson chuckled as I returned the monitor from the table to its proper place on the desk. "That _was_ fun."

"Rather."

"I thought the romantic aspect well-handled."

"Too close to the Gillette drama."

"Do you think so?" Watson sat back and contemplated this.

"I don't suppose you are game to try another movie."

He raised his eyebrows. "Holmes, it's a quarter to eleven. If we watch another two-hour movie, do you realise how late that will be?"

"I'm sure we can find something shorter," I shrugged, leaving the dining room.

As Watson followed me into the living room, he said, "Well, I did see a DVD the other day called _The Day the Earth Stood Still_. Black-and-white film, science fiction. It looked interesting." He searched the shelves that held the science fiction films, then pulled out a thin case. "Here we are."

He handed it to me, and I looked it over. "I suppose," I shrugged again. "_Klaatu barada nikto_. Hum, interesting language."

It so happened that the film was more to Watson's taste than mine, having no complexity of plot other than the largely unexplored mysteries surrounding the alien Klaatu. But Watson enjoyed it, and for tonight, that was what mattered.

* * *

We made it quite well through our first twenty-four hours without the lady of the house. Ruth barely avoided a soup spillage on the table, and all the siblings performed their usual bickering; but that was the extent of the damage thus far.

It was now late morning and finally warming up outside, after a foggy, chilly dawn. I went outside and headed for the pasture. Thunderhead stood conveniently in the corner nearest the house, placidly grazing—the _only_ time he was awake and placid, I am afraid.

I had not yet begun to break the stallion in, but I intended to rectify that situation posthaste. I noiselessly, slowly, approached the dark bay from his right, willing myself to project a gentle calm. As I drew near, I murmured, "Good morning."

One ear rotated in my direction, and his head came up.

"It's all right," I murmured. "It's all right." He watched me as I came closer, maintaining a steady steam of soothing words. I would be his master, but I would not be seen as a threat in his eyes. I stepped up to the fence and dared to extend my hand slowly.

He eyed me, then lowered his head to smell my hand as I kept murmuring.

I almost held my breath as I gradually lifted my free hand to stroke his powerful neck. Oh, he was a beauty, as fine a steed as any could wish to see! It was now my task to make him as fine a steed as any could wish to _ride_. The trick of the matter was to master the body without breaking the spirit. The process would be slow, but I would succeed.

* * *

Error messages on the computer were currently beyond my ken, therefore it was perfectly natural for me to call Christy—who was in the kitchen—for help. How could even I know that she was lifting heavy crockery? And in a house full of people, should she not have had better instincts, anyway?

But I get ahead of myself. The point is that, the very next moment after my call, I heard a crash from the next room, followed by a vociferous but curtailed curse. When I rushed into the kitchen to see what was the matter, I was greeted with one of the most ferocious looks I have ever had the misfortune to behold in a young woman of fine family and good breeding.

Oh, yes, not only was her temper Scotch-Irish-Spanish-Jewish-German-Polish like her mother's, it was also French via her father. In that moment, I heartily pitied her future husband.

"_Sherlock!_" Christy snarled. Of course, I had startled her as she was lifting the crockery, and she promptly dropped the dishes.

"My sincerest apologies, Christy, for startling you," I said with as placating a tone as ever I had used on an indignant client. "Is anything broken or cracked?"

She huffed and bent down to pick up the dishes, one by one. "I don't think so," she admitted grudgingly. "No." Then she growled. "Now I'm going to have to put them in the dishwasher! Ohhh, I _hate_ the way these cupboards are arranged!"

I backed away. "And there's nothing I can do to help?"

"No, not really." She opened the dishwasher and began to load it with the crockery. "What was it you wanted, anyway?"

"The computer gave me an… 'error message,' if I recall your mother's lessons aright."

She sighed. "Okay, just give me a sec, and I'll check it ou… hey, wait a minute! Couldn't you have asked Jeremy?"

"He and Cameron are outside with your grandfather in the garden."

She growled again and slammed the dishwasher door shut. "Fine. Just a minute." She gave her hands a quick wash—why, I could not fathom—and came out to the dining room, checking the monitor screen. And promptly closing her eyes and dropping her head as if fainting.

Fortunately, I knew from previous experience with Kathleen that such an action was merely a theatrical one, akin to bludgeoning one's head upon a hard surface. (Though, dear reader, I really cannot see much point in either action, even as a vent of frustration.)

Christy moved the cursor over to click on the "x" button on the window and said without looking up, "When _that_ specific message appears, you can just exit it. It's okay." Then, more to herself in an undertone than to me: "I can't _believe_ I went through all that just for a stupid message that could be closed." She stood straight to leave.

"Christy, I am—"

The kitchen door slammed shut behind her.

"—Sorry."

To borrow the modern habit of saying a single word in a derogatory fashion:

Women.

* * *

_**(Watson)**_

Of late, our nights were nearly as eventful as our days. This particular night, the second since Kathleen's departure, a thunderstorm gusted in around ten o'clock and raged healthily for a good hour. About fifteen minutes into the storm and half an hour into _Sherlock_ bonus features, a small form burst into the living room.

"Aubrey!" I cried, pausing the DVD and going over to the little one. "What on earth are you doing down here at this time of night?"

Before Aubrey could answer, Ruth appeared in the doorway, flushed and rumpled. "Aubrey Rosa Duran!" she scolded, then looked up at Holmes and myself. "Sorry, I think she forgot Mama wouldn't be here."

Indeed, Aubrey clung to my leg and buried her face into it when a particularly loud peal of thunder reverberated through the air. "I scared," said she, her voice muffled.

"Thunder is nothing more than loud noise caused by lightning, little one," Holmes said gently.

"C'mon, Aubrey, back to bed," Ruth coaxed.

Aubrey merely clutched my trousers tighter, and I shook his head. "Ruth, go back to bed; we shall take care of her."

"We shall?" Holmes echoed incredulously.

"You will?" said Ruth.

"Quite," I assured her. "Go on."

There was no mistaking the relief or gratitude in the teenager's face. "Thank you. Goodnight!" And with that, two bachelors were left alone with a frightened five-year-old girl.

Unperturbed, however, I lifted Aubrey into my arms and supported her on my right side so as not to strain my bad shoulder. "Now then, sweetheart, what say we get you back to sleep, eh?"

"Can' go ta sleep," she pouted.

Inspiration struck my friend at that point. "Watson, I've an idea," said he. "Half a moment." He disappeared and reappeared swiftly, cradling his treasure, and I understood.

"Excellent," I murmured.

He opened the case and picked up the violin. "Aubrey, does your mother ever sing you to sleep?"

"Lotsa times—'specially when it's stormin'."

"Very well, then, this will be like that, all right?" He tucked the violin under my chin, quite obviously reveling in the feel of it. I suddenly recalled that this was only the second time he would play it.

_It was last Thursday evening. Holmes had inexplicably reached from the armchair for his Stradivarius, only to remember that it was no longer in his possession. Kathleen studied him for a long moment, then rose from her sofa, saying, "I'll be right back."_

_When she returned, it was with a violin case. She wordlessly held it out to Holmes, who eyed her for a moment before carefully receiving it. He opened the case and lifted out a violin and bow, and looked up at Kathleen. "Kathleen, is this…"_

_She did not speak at first, some silent communication passing between two minds so very dissimilar and yet so very alike. "Yes," she said at last. "Go ahead, try it out."_

_Holmes tucked the instrument beneath his chin, tested it, tuned it. After a minute, he played a brief tune and stopped. It was not a Stradivarius, but any violin that passed under the hands of the master could sound beautiful; and from what I could tell, it was a well-made instrument._

_He lowered the violin and looked Kathleen in the eye. "Are you certain?" he said quietly._

_She returned his silver gaze steadily. "It __**needs**__ to be played," was all that she said._

Holmes closed his eyes and ran the bow over the strings, creating a soft, soothing melody that I recognized as one of his own pieces. I rocked Aubrey gently in time with the rhythm, and in a very few minutes, she was asleep. Holmes opened his eyes briefly to glance at the object of his effort and smiled, and I smiled back.

Even after I had returned Aubrey to bed, Holmes continued to play, and I turned off the DVD machine. Fiction was nothing compared to this reality.

**

* * *

Author's Note:**

Some more fluff, some more angst… Btw, the Winnie the Pooh episode mentioned is "Stripes," in which Tigger's stripes are scrubbed off, and everyone thinks he's someone other than himself. His sad little song near the climax of the story is the specific scene in this chapter; and, to be honest, it _still_ can make me tear up (Tigger!angst always could do that to me). Also, the version here of _The Day the Earth Stood Still_ is the original '50s film, not the remake. I've only ever seen the original; and from what I know of the remake, I'd probably enjoy it but not like it as much as the oldie.

As far as the RDJ film is concerned… y'know what, I still haven't seen it, but I've read the script, and I know a lot about it. I think I'd probably enjoy it, though there is stuff that I don't like/approve of. Christy's sentiments echo my own… c'mon, Sherlock probably _would_ have a hernia. xD

The Robert Stephens movie mentioned is _The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes_. Again, I've never seen it, but I _have_ read the script (you can get it from IMSDb). I wouldn't necessarily recommend it, 'cause there are some more-than-questionable aspects (definitely not a kids' show, if you take my meaning), but it's still an interesting adaptation. Sad at the end. The funny thing about it is that it stars Christopher Lee as—are you ready for this?—_Mycroft_. No, I kid you not, and, no, Christopher did not gain a lot of weight to do it. To date, it's the youngest I've ever seen Christopher Lee (the film is 1970), and he played a sort of Mycroft that's more like BBC _Sherlock_. I may note that Jeremy Brett called Robert Stephens his "bestest friend," and said that he liked Stephens and Colin Blakely (Watson) very much in their roles, "though I don't rate the film too highly" (interview by Wai-Ming Chan & Imran Hussain at Wyndham's Theatre, 5/4/89; copied from the Brettish Empire). One last note: there's at least one clip on YouTube, "Christopher Lee in The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes," and I must say that Stephens does a good job.

Oh, and while we're on the topic of adaptations, I have now seen _Sherlock_! HOLY COW, that show is _awesome_! There's stuff that I don't approve of, of course (and that cabbie creeps me out), but on the whole, I _definitely_ love it.

Christy's problem with the dishes is based off the distinct possibility of an identical situation happening in my own kitchen. =P It was nice to flesh her out more fully in this chapter—just in case you wondered, _she's_ more like me than Kathleen is.

My favorite scenes were the end and the airport—the latter, I've had written for several weeks. =) I love Kathleen's burst of fangirlism. Lucky girl, kissing them both. xD

_**Please review!**_


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